


Two Birds on a Wire

by empires, pentapus



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Nightwing (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: Bludhaven mafia, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Identity Porn, Italian Mafia, M/M, Original Character(s), Undercover Missions, Violence, jaydick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-04
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2019-05-01 21:25:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14529492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/empires/pseuds/empires, https://archiveofourown.org/users/pentapus/pseuds/pentapus
Summary: Dick asks Jason for help on a case. Jason should have never agreed.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is written in response to an art prompt from the fabulous @pentapoda. I say that like I didn't fall to my knees begging for the picture. Thank you, pen!
> 
> And now I need all the antibodies and germs to get on your feet for the team that brings these stories to life! 
> 
> The first line of defense in any draft who is infinitely patient--carbonjen!  
> The babe with the grammar glaive giving you the cleanest draft you'll ever save--Volavi!  
> A writer with a colony worth of ideas and a mission to make them happen--elwon!  
> My jaydick whisperer and touch master who finesses scenes away from disaster--salvadore!
> 
> I present to you, the village of aster!
> 
> But seriously, this is a pretty indulgent fic. Thank every one of you for making it readable. 
> 
> And thank you for coming in to read. I hope you enjoy it!

Jason picks up the sports car in Gotham, a sleek, black thing with an Italian pedigree and a soft rumble that turns heads. Dick whistles when he sees it darkly gleaming in the garage.

“I like this,” he announces after following the smooth curve from hood to roof with his bare hand. The casual touch and the lingering fingerprints make Jason’s teeth itch. He tugs his handkerchief from his suit pocket and buffs away the oily marks.

Jason winces at Dick laughter, the bright bubbly kind that says he’s highly amused. “You’re leaving fingerprints,” he grumbles.

“This is going to be our dynamic, huh? I mess things up and you clean up after me?” Dick nods to himself. “It could work.”

“No, it really couldn’t.” There’s no way Jason is going to start cleaning up after Dick Grayson. He snaps the cloth then quickly folds it into a neat square. “Come on, let’s go.” He stops when both their hands reach for handle on the driver’s door. “What are you doing?”

“I’m driving because I’m Jack Rialto’s bodyguard,” Dick says, slowly returning Jason’s glare with equanimity. “The bodyguard does the driving.”

In his fitted charcoal suit and his black silk shirt, Dick doesn’t look like anything like the alias Jason’s spent two long years developing. He looks a little too clean, a little too good, like a pretty playboy on the prowl instead of a slightly unhinged gun-for-hire with the specter of war crimes in his past.

“The hell you are,” Jason says. “I keep telling you, no one’s going to believe you’re my bodyguard.”

“We’ll see about that,” is all Dick says, backing away with his hands up. Or it would be if there was anything like honest justice in the world. “Since you’ve got your panties in a twist, Jack can be the badass heir who drives despite what his _security expert_ says. It’ll work with the attitude you’re throwing.”

Jason sputters through the emphasis, the cajoling tone, all signs of the patented Dick compromise, and fuck if he doesn’t hate that schtick, but all that comes out is, “I don’t wear panties,” and then, “Security expert sounds a little better.”

“You should try it sometimes. They’re pretty sexy, you know?” Dick says, swinging into the passenger seat leaving Jason to slowly grind his teeth together.

He should’ve known his magnanimity would come back to bite him in the ass.

 

* * *

 

Six days ago, Jason had shut down two overland trafficking lanes spanning from New York to Gotham. He was flying high on the accomplishment and felt as if he could do anything, including help the original Boy Wonder, who had dropped onto his rooftop sniffing for similarities between Jason’s case and his own.

“Sure, Dickie,” he’d said, gloating audible through the mask’s filters. “I’ll give your little case the once over and see what I can do.”

Jason followed Nightwing to one of his Gotham bolt holes. It was a narrow, brick-lined room accessible through the basement of a women’s boutique on the fringe of the city’s fashion district. He immediately recognized the wooden crates stacked against the far wall stamped with post war markings and the sturdy wooden bar as a remnant of Gotham’s past.

More specifically, “This is a speakeasy….”

Dick grinned. It sounded like gloating to his ears when Dick said, “I found this one after researching city plans for Batman a long time ago. Thought it was pretty cool and turned it into a Robin’s nest, now it’s an emergency Win--”

Jason threw up a hand to interrupt him. “Stop. I’m not here to talk about your old glory holes. Just give me the case details so I can see if there’s a connection.”

It occurred to Jason that this might be important to Dick, important enough to allow Jason the last word, because Dick simply shrugged and proceeded to boot up his computer array.

Scrolling through Dick’s meticulously annotated files quickly brought Jason to speed. Nightwing wanted more than a way to knock out the sudden influx of black-market weapons into Blüdhaven. He was searching for the local king maker, the man who brokered meetings between foreign gangs seeking permission to deal in and around the city limits and the people who run the underground territories. It was easier to locate this type of person in Gotham, where lines of power may move across town but rarely change hands. Blüdhaven was different, more insular, less loyal, and a lot quieter now that Nightwing was becoming synonymous with the city’s rebirth.

After several hours of reading and cross-referencing with some of his own case files, Jason spied a pattern. It emerged in the details Nightwing collected between information gathering, arm twisting, and head knocking unleashed over the past few weeks, which were at, in Jason’s professional opinion, somewhat respectable levels.

“I think I got something,” he called, leaning back in the speakeasy’s only seat. He collided with the arm Dick had resting behind his head along the back of Jason’s seat. Jason expected him to recoil, but this was Dick Grayson. He had to refrain from flinching when, instead of pulling away, Dick made it more intimate, curling his fingers over Jason’s shoulder. “What are you doing?”

Dick glanced at Jason from the corner of his eye. “Trying to see what you got?”

“All up on me though, Dickie?”

Dick placed another arm over Jason’s shoulder bracketing him into something between a hug and a headlock. “Shut up and tell me what’s going on.”

It wasn’t clear how they got here, from months of trading blows while in costume to this casual touch but it didn’t feel bad. The calm radiating through him is unexpected, almost surprising, like he finally has this thing with Dick under control.

Jason grinned smugly. “I can’t do both.”

“Jason,” Dick said, so close Jason could feel the warning in his voice.

“Fine, fine,” Jason said, airily, then it was down to business. “You’re hitting up the wrong networks. The weapons are high-grade, yeah, but not high-tech. There’s no way the Propheteers are stockpiling them,” he said, referring to the techno-cult making inroads in the city. “And I can appreciate your militia theory, but the weapons are completely clean meaning they were constructed outside of the company’s normal manufacturing protocols. No serial numbers anywhere. There’s only one criminal group that maintains those connections.”

“I thought the same thing.” Dick tapped the screen revealing a single word scribbled on the page. It seemed like Dick reached a similar conclusion after all. “The Blüdhaven mafia isn’t something O. or I can hack into, and none of my alter egos have been gaining traction or the recognition to meet a guy who knows a guy that can get me to the King Maker.”

“So, when you said you needed my help, you meant you wanted my contacts. Well, jokes on you, wonder bread, Red Hood can only go so far in ‘haven.”

“You don’t expect me to believe Red Hood is the only name you pulled to put the kibosh on Sionis’s trade out of New York.”

Jason twisted around to face Dick, glare hot. “I never said I didn’t put in the time.”

“Exactly. That's what I need your help from you. Your time, and maybe," Dick stretches out the word before sliding into the true purpose of his visit, "an alias that can cozy me up with one of the old timers here.”

“Old timers don’t trust anyone, Dickie, especially someone new sniffing around Nightwing’s city. Anyone I pull out will get the wrong kind of attention. You have to come up with a different angle.”

Dick stared at him hard, blue eyes steady and searching, then pushed away with a sigh. “Yeah. I guess it was too much to expect you to pull a miracle together on such short notice, especially if O. couldn’t get me in. But hey, we can still brainstorm if you have the time.” He jerked his thumb towards the crates, a twist at the corner of his mouth and it became and encouraging grin. “You can try out some of the stash and see if we can come up with a plan.”

In Jason’s personal bat experience, sounding disappointed and being disappointed were two very different things. Dick sounded disappointed, like he’d expected more from Jason, which is understandable. Jason expected more for himself too, especially when he was showing up Dick Grayson. He froze, feeling the spring buckle just as the trap sprung. It was such gross manipulation, but he opened his mouth anyway.

“If you really need it, I could have something for you in two days,” Jason said, while a part of him banged his fist against the part of his hindbrain that fell for Dick Grayson. Every fucking time. “But I have conditions.”

“Shoot,” Dick said, readily.

“This is my spec-ops now. My timetable, my rules. My plan.” He watched Dick nod, face serious enough to bank the triumph in his eyes. Almost.

“Sure.” Dick laughed when Jason’s expression twitched at the easy answer. “I’m not that much of a control freak, Jay. Besides, you do good work. You say you can get us an in, I’ll trust you to get me there.”

It’s just the kind of hands in a circle, rousing cheer on three bullshit Jason’s come to expect from Dick. Expect and distrust.

“Remember you said that,” Jason grumbled. “Second condition. We do not change the plan. When you work with the Red Hood, you become a part of a systematic machine that is methodical, fine-tuned, and gets things done.”

Dick's eyeroll is entirely unnecessary. “Right.”

“I’m serious, Dickie. I build contingencies into my contingencies. If something needs to be changed, I’ll make the call.”

Dick’s brow raised. “I don’t know why you think I can’t stick to the plan, but okay, hot shot. No deviations.”

“Final condition. You owe me a favor and one of those crates when we’re through.” Jason nodded to the back wall. He might as well get something out of this mercy mission.

Dick bit his lip, a flicker lighting deep in his eye before responding. “Do a good job and I’ll give you more than a crate. How long did you say you needed? Two days?”

Jason nodded surprised at how easily Dick acquiesced to his demands.

"I'll give you three," Dick said, smile wide.

Jason may have followed Dick to his glory hole on a whim, but he had the opportunity to show Dick how Red Hood led a team and he wasn’t going to waste it.

It took a half day to come up with a plan and another twelve hours to make sure it was viable. Twenty-four hours later, Jason finished resurrecting two of his past undercover identities.

Resurfacing the aliases wasn’t the problem. Creating a paper trail and activities for the weeks, months, or years below radar was. He always accounted for the paranoid by developing timelines through public records and social media, even piped phone data into a carrier’s system, because Jason was nothing if not thorough. Another twelve hours put the appropriate rumors in motion. Jason spent the rest of the time gathering cars, clothes, and cash, all necessary for the charade.

Then he was ready to show it all to his audience of one.

“It’s a rush job,” Jason announced a day later when Dick waltzed into his current safehouse, a studio overlooking Bay Park south. “But I have your in.”

He set a glossy 8x10 picture of a graying man on the table.

“Salvatore Giacomo. He’s been a part of the gambling underworld in Blüdhaven since the sixties.”

Dick studied the photo, a frown on his lips. “Sal? He’s small time. Keeps it just over the wrong side of the line.”

“Exactly. He’s maintained his territory through some of the most violent eras in the city’s history. How?” Jason eyed Dick sharply, watching the thought process shift across the planes and curves of his face, and then Dick’s blue eyes narrow. Bingo. Jason allows himself a satisfied grin. “I don’t think he’s the king maker, but he’s got to know something.”

“How do we get to him then? Sal has a long history, knows a lot of people, and comes across as very shrewd. He is the epitome of an old timer.”

Jason tossed two folders on the table. Their pages slid free exposing documents, photos, and some small newspaper clippings. He tapped on the top folder. “Meet Jack Rialto, bastard son of the late Giovanni Rialto. He was the head of the long defunct Cane River 5 and knew Sal before the gang headed to the Midwest. I resurrected Rialto’s son a couple years before I made my way home. You want one?” He pulled a beer from an ice chest. Dick accepted but left the can to sweat on the table. “He was always hungry from more and left the group right before trouble started. I’m thinking you go in as the upstart heir wanting to capitalize on his daddy’s name. It’s perfect for you,” Jason continued under the soft pop-hiss of a can cracking open, “A smiley fucker with family ties who won’t take no for an answer.” Jason smiled tightly, waiting for his jibe to land, but Dick was flipping through the other folder with a considering gaze.

“Who is Mickey D?”

It was a reasonable question, innocuous even, but Jason tensed. The memories sweep through his mind, a blood-soaked flip book of swift strikes repeated over and over again. His movements were jerky at first, hesitation, fear, but they became smooth, death clean, silent. He hated it. The images faded, the red resolving to the bright blue of Dick’s eyes searching over his face. He brings the can to his lips, mindful of the indentations where his fingers rest.

“Michael Dianetti, aka Mickey D. He’s the bodyguard.”

“Interesting,” Dick murmured. He skimmed down another page and paused, brow furrowing. “Dianetti did four months in a penitentiary?”

Shrugging, Jason said, “He did. And hated every fucking second of it.”

Dick made a quiet sound and flipped the page, but his gaze remained. Jason cleared his throat realizing Dick expected him to continue. “Dianetti came before the Rialto persona. Created him so I could approach one of my private tutors. I had to bust out of prison before he’d take me on.”

“What kind of ‘tutoring’?” Dick asked, the first question ever put to him about that time. Bruce probably investigated the hell out of his travels and only got eight percent of it down, and Damian already knew the regimen of an elite guard. No one else had ever asked. A lot must have passed between them for Jason to only feel the vaguest unease when he answered.

“Wet work,” he said, voice short before lifting his gaze to meet Dick’s. The intensity of those eyes wasn’t what he expected, the way they seemed to push straight through the attitude Jason projected, like he could see the highlight reel Jason avoided peering at when he was alone with his thoughts.

“How long?”

Jason tossed up a few fingers pretending to count. “Too long.”

Dick’s face tightened, but he only nodded and resumed looking through the folder. Jason released a slow, relieved breath. He didn’t really want to talk about it, and he was surprised that Dick hadn’t pushed. The silence lacked the judgement Jason had come to expect from the perfect hero, but also the internalized sadness that used to permeate their interactions. He’s glad for it. Dealing with Dick’s empathetic guilt was tiring. Dick turned the next page and paused, an odd smile twisting his mouth.

“What is it?”

“Your mugshot.” Dick holds the photo beside his face. “It kind of looks like me, doesn’t it?”

Jason’s protest faded once he got a good look at the side-by-side comparison. Eighteen-year-old Jason had a narrowness to his face and body that echoed Dick’s, and his hair had been longer then almost obscuring the black eye he had in the photo. It’s like Dick’s current style in how a thick wave curves over his face.

“I mean, there’s a surface level resemblance? Nothing concrete.”

“According to this file, we’re the same height,” Dick said, twisting the photo around so he can look at it again.

“I was just hitting my post-mortem growth spurt,” Jason snarks.

“And this smarmy expression—”

“Hey!”

Dick cocked his head back and bared his teeth in an accurate recreation of Jason’s youthful disdain bearing down at the camera, not that he’d ever tell Dick. The image crystallized in sudden, horrible detail and he could see exactly where Dick was going.

“No,” Jason said, putting his foot down even though he knew it was too late.

Dick’s grin fell into something more familiar. “Yes.”

Jason snatched the folder back. “I’m the bodyguard.”

“Not this time, tough guy.”

“We had a deal. My op, my rules, no deviations.”

Dick shook his head. “I’ve never met Sal, but I know guys like him. He doesn’t respect what you described Rialto to be. He respects a hot temper bridled by smart actions, a smart mouth, not a loud mouth, with a hint of rebellion. That’s you, Jay. I’ll take the bodyguard role.”

They regarded one another, eyes sharp, lips pursed, bodies cocked like it was noon on Main Street. The reasoning was solid, but Jason really didn’t want to give this to him.

“No one’s gonna believe you’re my bodyguard.”

“Trust me, they will.”

Jason looked him up and down, making sure the raw disbelief was written all over his face with capital letters. In primary colored crayon. “No, they won’t.”

“I’m going to go so deep cover, you won’t even recognize me,” Dick announced, plucking the folder from Jason’s lax grip with one hand. The other settled on Jason’s shoulder, long fingers firm and hot. “It’s your op, and this is more than I imagined you could pull together in such a short time. I’m impressed, Jay, and I’m still following your lead. But I’m Mickey D, okay?” He squeezed gently before swerving to the kitchen. “You got any peanuts in here?”

“In the cabinet beside the fridge,” he shouted despite the incredulity twisting his jaw like a cog.

“You’re awesome!” Dick replied, and Jason’s fist clenched as he sat there feeling outmaneuvered and slightly short of breath.

 

* * *

 

The 359 circles north out of Gotham along the bay before heading west. They drive along the coast for several miles before merging onto a two-lane highway that would allow them to enter Blüdhaven from the south east. Jason had expected some sort of protest, but Dick merely shrugs while Jason recounts the necessity of entering the Blüdhaven from the right direction, then begins searching the satellite radio presets.

The silence between them, punctuated by bright synth pop and the occasional post-industrial wave that still sounds pop to Jason’s ears, isn’t uncomfortable but it’s a little unnerving.

Halfway to their destination, Jason decides to open the conversation a little and asks quick questions about Dick’s other cases, his experiences in what’s becoming his own city, and when that doesn’t work, questions about the family. His interest amuses Dick enough for a smile to appear, allowing Jason to relax in turn.

“You should try using his name,” Dick says. “Or at least his callsign. It wouldn’t hurt either of you. And it might help me figure out to whom you’re referring.”

“To whom, huh?” Jason grins. “I’m talking about the brat prince this time.”

“You mean Damian.”

“The tiny demon, yes.”

Dick tilts his head towards him. “How many nicknames do you have for him?”

After doing a quick mental calculation, Jason replies. “I’ve got a whole arsenal waiting for the dark shrimp.”

“You could try calling him Robin.”

“I could,” Jason admits. “But I’d be depriving yon gremlin of an important lesson.”

“I’m pretty sure you both need a lesson about bullying,” Dick says, dryly.

“More like a one on understanding that Robin is important, but it’s not all you are or all you’ll ever be.” Jason doesn’t expect the quiet thought rays Dick’s putting out after his statement, and he rushes to clarify his words. “It’s a hard lesson to learn, you know. One that always invites some sort of trauma. Besides, we all know there’s only one Robin that really matters.”

“Jay—“ Dick begins.

“You can’t help it, Goldie. You may have started the trend, but I perfected it.” He feels Dick’s eyes sweep over him, quickly at first then another slower measure.

“You certainly did something to it.” Dick slumps back into his seat with a sigh. “Thirty miles to the city outskirts then it’s showtime.”

 _Showtime_. Jason repeats the phrase in his head. Showtime, as if they’re a couple of stars hustling their way for a gig. Knowing Dick, he’s picturing them as some sort of vaudeville duo ready to entertain. That’s never been Jason’s MO. He puts in the leg work, fleshes out the smallest details, and hammers a story so hard it folds into a sharp weapon all on its own. It doesn’t feel like he and Dick have reached this point.

After snaking Mickey D. from him, Dick acquiesced to Jason’s plan. They worked on the background details, how they met, who the other ran with, the truths Jack and Mickey shared, and the lies they held from one another. Dick spent all of Wednesday reciting the alphabet and poetry in an increasingly broad east Gotham accent that mimicked Jason’s own nasal inflections. It had been a little eerie, but Jason had to worry about solidifying his own accent, Chi-town by way of Jersey. They’d worked on it until Dick declared himself ready, but Jason still feels a bit of unease.

There’s no amount of preparation that would make people believe Dick is his bodyguard. They’re going to see right through his act. And when this all falls apart, Jason will be waiting with an, “I told you so.”

 

* * *

 

Ten miles outside of Blüdhaven, something changes.

There’s a shifting motion to Jason’s right. Dick reaches for the radio again, cycling through the channels before settling on some rather bland metal. He falls back into his seat, knees tilted outwards. It’s the first sign of the change. Five minutes later, Dick’s flipping his wrist up to check the time. His other hand slides into his jacket. Ten minutes later, he does it again. Jason’s about to comment about the shoulder holster, when he realizes Dick’s not adjusting anything. He’s stroking the gun nestled against his side. Dick tilts his head back a little and narrows his eyes like he’s determined to see the world through his lashes. He peers over at Jason and cocks a grin, a teeth-baring, “fuck you” slash of his full lips. One after another, Jason witnesses a time lapse of new traits layered on like stage make up until Dick Grayson melts away leaving Mickey D. in his place.

“Hey, Jackie,” he says. “You drive slower than my dead grandmother.”

“Your grandmother is dead, may she rest in peace. She’s not driving anywhere,” Jason replies, and gets a rasping laugh in return. He stifles a sigh. _Vaudeville act_ , he thinks in disgust.

“Good one, Jackie.”

“Don’t call me that. Jackie and Mickey. It sounds stupid,” Jason adds, flattening the idea before it gets started.

Out the corner of his eye, Jason sees Dick’s tongue roll over his lips like a pink wave while he considers this statement. He shrugs, a “what can you do” air about him and the grin is back, a little softer now.

“Sure thing, _boss_ ,” Dick replies, lingering on that sibilant sound.

Grunting, Jason’s eyes focus on blowing through the increasing traffic and not the way his fingers tightened on the wheel.

“You don’t like being the boss, boss?” Dick asks, hand creeping back into his jacket.

Jason can’t help but watch Dick slide even lower into the seat, his posture less lazy, more evocative. Dick licks his lips again, slowly, and there’s a honk from another driver worried that Jason’s not paying attention because he’s drifting in his lane. Shit. Jason hits the gas, shooting forward and then sailing over the lane cutting him off, a curse melting in his mouth. Dick doesn’t call him out though. Instead, he cocks a brow.

“Or do you like it when I call you that?” A beat. “Boss.”

Of course, Dick notices, but it’s not Dick who teases a response back. It’s Mickey, the inflection, the slight tick of his fingers on his knee, the twist of his lip. Jason glances at him, expecting Dick to break, but he doesn’t, only stares at him, waiting.

“Take your voice back up a notch,” Jason says, ignoring the question. “It sounds too suggestive there.”

“I’m not suggesting anything. Except, you seem a little tense.” Dick trails off. “You think there’ll be any chicks at this meeting?”

Jason cuts a cold glare his direction. “No, I don’t think there’s going to be any ladies there.”

“Ladies. Listen to the man. Ladies.” Dick leans a little closer. “You treat the ladies good, boss?”

A quick glance allows Jason a glimpse of Dick’s lidded eyes focused on him, a spark of dry amusement in their depths. Jason forces his shoulders to relax, to exhale evenly, to not give an inch to whatever game Dick is playing right now. “I treat people like they deserve. They come to me wrong, I put them in their place. If they show me they’re worth my time, I’ll treat ‘em right.” His lips crack into a loose grin. “I’ll show them a damn good time. Ladies. Gentlemen too.”

Dick’s hand slides from his jacket to his thigh smoothing out the wrinkles. “Yeah boss. I bet you do.”

As they glide through the streets of Blüdhaven proper, Jack Rialto emerges, trading lazy banter back and forth punctuated by tangential stories from jobs past.

In the city, Jack drives with one hand sitting at seven o’clock on the wheel while he thumbs through his phone. One eye on the road, one eye on his business, and it’s a good day to do business, or so says his horoscope. Jack’s quieter than the last time he slipped out of hiding, but the same fire driving him to take his place in the world underlies each word. The only problem is that both Jack and Jason can’t help but notice the body lounging beside them. There’s a casual bend to Dick’s version of Mickey that feels both off and too familiar.

He’d only ever seen Dick under cover a few times, and that had been back in the days of short pants, when seeing Dick at all had been a rare treat. Dick had been doing the young playboy routine then, while Jason listened from an observation point high above the Gotham marina. It hadn’t been much of a stretch to listen to a vapid, too-loud playboy and see Dick Grayson. He’s played that role before, for Bruce and Gotham, and he’s done it well.

Mickey D. is completely opposite to that image though, and Jason can’t stop checking it out, placing the cool composure Dick wears now, with his fingers tapping lightly on the car window, lips move slowly to the words of the song. But his eyes are alert, dark and snapping over everything.

It’s also kind of hot, and Jason hates how the thought slinks up from the deepest recesses of his mind.

 

* * *

 

According to Jason’s research and Dick’s finite knowledge of all things Blüdhaven, Sal Giacomo spends most of his business hours at an Italian steakhouse near the city’s original Immigrants Row. The place used to be called “Carmine’s” back in the day when gangsters didn’t bother to hide their business associations. It wasn’t like the law was coming after them, especially in a place like the ‘haven. Now it’s named “Prego,” and maintains the past connections with its original 20s store front façade, with the wide stone blocks, winged curves on the cornices, and the stony fossils of the haven’s criminal past tottering through the door for the senior special.

“Phase one. We go in, roll Giacomo, and secure a second meeting.” Jason recounts the objectives while Dick brushes his thumb beneath his bottom lip, scoping the building and its surroundings. “Let’s go.”

Dick catches his elbow before Jason crosses the street. “One second, Jack,” he says softly.

They wait for a silver cruiser to pass by, then Dick lets him go with a pat. They cross the street, ready to make their entrance.

Inside is, what the old cats would call, pure class. The original mosaic tile runs along the outside edge of the stone floor. The walls feature faded frescoes of fabled Italian countryside. Twenty tables in crisp white table cloths and low-lit candles spread down the length of the main dining area. Dick inserts himself just in front of Jason, close like a shadow extending from his arm.

There’s movement when the two strangers arrive, a glance from a lone man slurping over a bowl of steaming soup in the corner, a nod from the bartender in the back. The host comes forward.

“Do you have reservations?”

Dick approaches the welcome stand. Right now, he even moves different, steps near silent, movements tightly contained, but body relaxed. He even walks with most of his weight on the balls of his feet like he’s prowling.

Witnessing Dick become Mickey D. had been strangely compelling. Parts of his performance come from traits Jason embedded in the persona, the alertness, the finger ticks, but the quiet voice and Dick’s proximity, the way he licks his lips or draws a thumb under his lower lip seem like they should’ve been there all along. It’s hard not to keep his eyes on Mickey D. to catalog the changes, and he indulges himself, feeling safer now than the other times he’s wanted to watch Dick work. For instance, Mickey D. stops a foot from the podium keeping distance between himself and the waitstaff, his body blocking Jason’s, whereas Dick would’ve been in the guy’s space before Jason walked through the door, charming him with a smile and a couple of folded tens.

“Reservations for Rialto. We’re part of a party. Should’ve already arrived.”

“Hmm. Rialto, Rialto. I don’t think so, sir.”

“Are you sure? Look again.” The menace in Mickey’s voice rumbles through the air and Jason’s belly.

Jason looks to his left, pretending to be engulfed in the décor. Not the hardest task, but he needs something to slow down his natural inclination to step in. He’s the boss, not the bodyguard.

The maître’ d looks them both over, nose twitching with disapproval. “Do you have your party’s name?” he asks. His tone making Jason’s hackles rise.

“We got a problem here, D?” Jason asks, turning back to the podium. His hands rise to the lapels of his own shiny silk shirt, unbuttoned to the collarbone. The movement makes his gold cufflinks catch the light. So much for staying out of it.

“There ain’t no problem here, boss,” Dick replies, quietly, eyes on the staff. “We’re just checking for the reservation.”

Boss. The word clearly resonates with the maître’ d. They’ve been made now, finally. It should’ve been apparent before Jason flashed the money that’s sewn into their fitted suits, a matte black that stole the light carefully glowing around the restaurant. Everything else was gold. Gold accents litter Rialto’s body. The rings on his right hand, the bracelet and watch on his left, the finely crafted frame of his glasses, and the heel of his perfectly buffed Italian leather shoes.

The maitre’d looks Jason over a second time, face paling.

“We’re here for the retirement party for Mr. Midas,” Dick continues, adding the proper password.

“Ah. Here it is. J. Rialto and guest….” The maître’ d’s eyes swing up to catch the jagged smile on Mickey’s face and blanches. “I apologize for the confusion. Ah. Please. Follow me please.”

They’re led through the dining room and up the stairs, sturdy and old with only nine or so coats of black paint over the wood. The climb past the second-floor dining area, with its wide leather booths and second bar, to the third floor, which seems to house offices and an employee bathroom. The fourth floor is simply a wide landing with exposed brick walls and heavy shadows spilling over the floor. Jason glances over the side. The entire downstairs is open to him, checkerboard floors and lit candles.

Two fingers tap his shoulder.

“Over here, boss,” Dick murmurs, allowing Jason time to turn and see a section of the brick wall swing open.

A vast majority of Jason’s oldest memories exist in a spotty, green-tinged haze accessible at the best of times. Occasionally, something will float up from the mire, a sound, a voice, an event running in real time. He’s assaulted by such a moment as they climb up another flight of stairs. Jason Todd, age nine trotting up the stairwell of a crumbling six-story walk up with his father. He sits on stained carpet that smells like smoke running a car back and forth along the woven vines listening to the stories traded during a poker game. Someone talks about moving product in the old days, how the older row houses and businesses were like giant boxes from one side of the street to the other with a thin wall separating them. Hidden passageways, having one block lit up like Christmas while the next street over was pitch black. It had all seemed like a daring adventure, like Robin Hood or Jesse James.

They walk through another door which opens onto a lobby with two elevators in the art deco style. The maitre’d directs them to the nearest elevator, advising their party dines on the twelfth floor. The hidden door closes behind him, restoring the seamless wall.

Jason’s gold heels echo loudly on the ceramic floors, but Dick still moves soundlessly. Jason throws a couple glances at his feet trying to determine if the soles have been felted. It wouldn’t be the only custom job. Dick’s pants look fitted too.

The elevators look like elegant bird cages with great wrought iron gates and an open shaft. Looking up, Jason can see the mechanical innards clicking and creaking down to them. The gate folds open.

“I fucking hate these kinds of elevators,” he says as Dick steps on. “Bird cages.”

Dick grins sharply. “Tweet, tweet, Jackie.”

“I told you not to call me that,” Jason grumbles, climbing aboard. “Did you even check this out? Some security expert you are.”

“Don’t worry boss. I have an eye on things,” Dick replies with a nudge of his elbow, but Jason had already spied the security cameras, so he doesn’t comment.

The open design of the elevators allows them to view each floor as they pass. They’re similarly designed with the same tile floors and soft pendant lighting. Each floor has four doors numbered one through four, even spaced along the walls. Some of them have welcome mats.

“They have condos on this side of the street and a restaurant on the other?” Jason falls into his braying Rialto laugh. “Genius. Fuck, them real estate fucks know how to get the coins rolling in don’t they?”

Dick glances at the doors then shrugs. “You can get a luxury bedroom about four miles north of here. Probably with a half a mil more in value from bay views.”

“You thinking about buying a place in Blüdhaven, D.?”

Dick shrugs. “Just looking out for your investments, boss.”

The elevator grinds to a halt. They exit into a squad of goons equal to Jason in height and possibly heavier by five stones. Dick steps ahead of Jason.

“Mr. Rialto to see Mr. Giacomo.” Dick sounds pleasant enough, almost like he’s smiling, but it doesn’t seem to go over well. The tallest one with the round belly tenses, and another flexes his hand like he’s aching to wrap it around something. Jason wishes he could see the expression on Dick’s face that’s made everyone tense.

“Of course,” another guy speaks up. “Mr. Giacomo is expecting you.”

In the grand scheme of the Blüdhaven underworld, Sal Giacomo appears a bright-eyed, spindly man of middling height, middling temper, and middling ambition. Within the confines of his own business, Sal sits on the butter soft leather of his favorite booth like a jolly king on his throne, and he greats Jason like he’s a long-lost nephew.

Sal rises to his feet. “Little Jackie Rialto, I never knew you. Come here, _ragazzo_ , and say hello to your Uncle Sal?”

“Hello, Mr. Giacomo. I’m Jack and this is my security expert, Mr. Dianetti.”

Jason receives a brisk handshake and is then hauled into a surprisingly strong hug from the septuagenarian. After receiving his third kiss on the cheek, Jason decides to put an end to this extended greeting. He steps away, gracefully—he thinks before catching the twitch on Dick’s smug face—and smiles.

“Thank you, for agreeing to see us on such short notice, Mr. Giacomo.”

Sal returns to his seat and waves at Jason to join him. “Blüdhaven might’ve forgotten your old man, but Sal always remembers,” he says, voice serious. “He was always good to me. Helped me get my foot in the door. When you reached out, I could only return the favor. Now, what is it you’d like to discuss?”

“Shipping. I have come to understand Blüdhaven has taken a few hits when it comes to moving products in and out of the city reliably.”

“You heard about this all the way in Illinois?”

“Michigan, actually. I’m operating out of Detroit now, and yes Mr. Giacomo. The situation made the national news. I turned to my associate here, and I said, ‘D, this is an opportunity.’ So, I put together some things and decided to come down. Try my luck.”

“You have a transportation business?” Sal asks slowly.

“Better than that. I own and operate a textile plant and a small freight company. We produce novelty and memorabilia items, quality prizes for amusement parks and sporting goods for some smaller teams. We’ve been recently contracted to supply goods to the Blüdhaven Blackjacks.”

Sal winces. Not a good sign.

“Is something wrong?”

“No, no. I just hate that name. The Blüdhaven Blackjacks, the BHBJ’s. Terrible name.” Sal frowns. “I wrote in the Lucky Number 7s when they were naming the team. Can’t go wrong with lucky number seven.” The statement is politely echoed by his small cadre of guards.

“You’re right, Mr. G,” one of the bodyguards says, politely. “Your write in was real popular on Chirp.”

Jason glances at Dick, whose shoulders seem absurdly straight right now, like they’re holding laughter at bay. “If I can show you some of what my business can offer.” Jason holds up both hands, and then moves them to his jacket. Sal nods, and he pulls a small tablet free. He begins his presentation, allows Sal to flip through the photos of the company website, clients, and the news articles featuring the deal.

Sal frowns. “This looks like it’s on the up and up.”

“Because it’s legit,” Jason replies, leaning forward to flip to the quarterly report. “My dad was right. You really can have it all. Bring money into the neighborhood, turn a high profit without straining the business, and make a family grow. You’ve just got to be smart about it.”

“Smarter not harder. That was your old man.”

“Exactly. I tried to go into the family business once. It didn’t pan out for me, so I went this direction. I have a clean business, I pass inspections, I move good, legal product, and pay my workers above fair wages, which makes them happier and nets me higher quality goods in return. I’m damn near untouchable.”

“It sounds like you’re already set, _ragazzo_. With these numbers, I mean, what more can you want?”

“My legacy. The Rialto name used to mean something,” Jason says, dropping a little blue-eyed earnestness into his voice. “We used to mean something. I can’t let my father’s dream die like that.”

Sal takes a sip of his highball. “Let’s say this works perfectly. You move things for a few guys in the ‘haven. How do you clean all that money?”

Jason waves his hand. “I’m a small businessman. With this new tax code, I can push the bulk of it through my LLC without taking a loss or having the tax man come knocking at my door.” He stops surprised when a heavy cigar drops between his thumb and forefinger. He glances at Dick, a small frown on his face. “Do you mind if I smoke, Mr. Giacomo?”

“For the last time, it’s Sal, _ragazzo_.”

“Would you like one, Sal?” Jason snaps his fingers and Dick opens the slim black case revealing three more fat cigars secured on red silk.

“Cigars." Sal stares with a yearning look in his eyes then shakes his head. "No. My Darla made me give ‘em up. Bad for the heart, you know. And she says, ‘Salvatore, I love your heart too much to let you kill it.’ What’s a man to do? But you can light up.”

Jason reaches for his inner pocket, but Dick’s already flicking a lighter open. He stares into Dick’s eyes as the flame licks the cigar head, trying to convey every curse he can through his eyes alone, because this whole thing isn’t part of the plan. Dick has got to stop changing the plan. He sucks deeply, pulling the warm, heady smoke into his lungs, feeling the sweet tang coat his throat then exhales. Soft white rings dissolve into a gray mist encircling them both. The sound of a throat clearing breaks their gaze.

“So, this is impressive stuff. Real slick, and I like the didididi,” Sal waggles his fingers, “when the dollar signs spin and the like. Slick. But why are you coming to me? I’m a numbers man. I don’t move nothing but people’s cash from one race to the next.”

“I understand that, sir. I knew coming to you might be a longshot, but you’re someone I know in the city. I figured you could direct me to someone who’s interested in making a deal. Maybe set up a meeting with some players, if it’s not too much trouble.”

Sal snorts. “Not too much trouble? What is this? High tea with the Queen of England and the Pope.” Sal regards him closely for a moment, flicks his eyes over to Dick, who stands just inside his shadow, and then nods. “Okay, fine. You put on a good, show, kid,” he says, and Jason dies a little on the inside because Dick suggested the presentation, and he can practically feel Dick’s ‘told you so’s puffing at his ear. “I can’t promise you no favors, but I can check with some of the high rollers. See who might need some help with the transportation business.”

“Thank you, Mr.” Jason stops, a quick grin flickering over his face. “Thanks, _Sal_ ,” he amends.

“Don’t thank me yet, Jackie. I’ve got one or two questions for you.” He nods to the men. “We’ll need a few moments of privacy. That includes you, twinkle toes,” he adds, addressing Dick for the first time.

The guards begin to leave the room, while Dick hesitates at Jason’s shoulder. He shakes his head minutely.

“It’s fine, Mickey. Business is done, but now we have to negotiate the finder’s fee, right Sal?”

“I tell you, this kid is keen as a knife. That’s exactly it.” He shoos his men from the room.

Dick lingers for a moment, eyes flickering around the room before settling on Jason. “I’ll be just outside,” he warns, before padding out of the room. Jason watches the door close behind him with a string of places Dick can put his reassurances. He turns, finding Sal regarding him with a crooked smile.

“Okay, kid. Let’s talk.”

 

* * *

 

Sal sets down his glass of wine with a laugh. “Alright, that’s enough already. Eighteen percent you sensible sonovabitch.”

“Sensible? That’s the last word anyone’s ever used to describe me,” Jason says, knocking the ash from his cigar.

“It suits you,” Sal argues. “You got this whole thing about you. A…a,” he circles his hands together while searching for the right word, “A business acumen, and you use numbers like an accountant. Sensible.” Sal nods as if the argument is settles, but Jason shrugs, taking a sip of his wine.

“You don’t get this far being sensible. Ask people I work with. Ask Mickey D.” When he puts his glass down, Sal is looking at him again with that crooked smile. Alarm bells start blaring in Jason's head, loud and obnoxious

“Mickey D, huh?” Sal repeats, knowingly. “It’s another sign of the times, isn’t it? The likes of a guy like you keeping a guy like him so close.”

Jason allows the ash to fall in the tray keeping it calm and controlled, because he did not just hear that. “Excuse me?”

“It’s too late to play dumb, _ragazzo_ , at least with ol’ Sal. You always got one eye on 'em. It gives you away.”

Jason’s mouth dropped because he was searching for something to say.

“You’re surprised I could see it? My Darla always said I had a love radar implanted where my brain should be. I can tell when two people are like this.” Two aged fingers rise and cross, faintly shaking. “That’s you.”

He knew no one would believe Dick was his bodyguard, but he had no idea the reason would be _him_. It should’ve been Dick’s heart of gold slipping them up, not Jason’s inability to keep his eyes to himself. It’s crazy, it’s mortifying, and it’s so fucking unprofessional, he has no excuse that he can say aloud.

“He’s my bodyguard, Sal,” he says, fighting a wince because it sounds so weak coming out of his mouth.

Sal puts up his hands placatingly. “Sure son,” he says. “Just a friendly warning. Keep a lid on it. Not everyone in Blüdhaven is as enlightened as me.”

 

* * *

 

Jason strides out of Prego’s front doors, ears still red from Sal’s friendly warning.

The guards had seemed surprised when Jason burst out the door like a looming storm cloud. They moved out of the comfortable semi-circle around Dick who’s talking with his hands and smacking on gum. Their laughter freezing on their face until Sal’s voice sailed faintly out the door.

“I’ll tell my accountant to look for your email.”

A fog of embarrassed anger swirls around Jason until he’s tripping down the restaurant’s stone steps and the concrete spreads beneath his feet, solid and immovable. He takes a deep breath and exhales a flurry of profanity that sizzles the air.

“You don’t look so good, boss? Deal go sideways?” Dick asks, seemingly amused by the possibility. Jason’s head snaps to the sound of his voice and he’s back to doing the thing. Staring at Dick’s heavy hair being swung from his forehead and the lazy preparedness he exudes.

“No. It went fine,” he grunts and tugs at his jacket until it sits on his shoulders without all this tightness.

Dick catches his shoulder, managing to squeeze once, gently, before Jason knocks him away. “What’s the matter then?”

“Nothing. But you were wrong. They don’t think you’re my bodyguard.” He grins viciously.

“What?” Dick looks back at the building and then back at Jason. “What makes you say that?”

Instead of answering, Jason takes in the street. Lights flicker on up and down the block welcoming the evening. A delivery truck passes leading a small convoy of cars, white sedan, teal crossover, silver cruiser. Directly across from them, a couple walks hand and hand from a coffee shop at the other end of the street.

“Let’s go for a walk,” he says, ignoring the question.

He reaches the end of the block and turns left rather than cross the street to return to the car. Footsteps, a soft _pap, pap, pap_ , rapidly approach him. Dick’s quicktime gait amuses him for some reason, and then he hears the bend on Sal’s voice around “twinkle toes,” and he flushes again.

Dick catches up with him at the crosswalk. He grabs Jason’s elbow before he sprints across the street, cars be damned. “You out of your mind, boss? You pay me a lot of money to protect you, but I can’t do that if you’re running off on your own.”

“Don’t touch me,” Jason snaps, jerking out of his grasp.

When Dick slips in front of him, blocking the path, it’s _him_ , stubborn jaw and soft eyes, like the quiet shadow was never there. “Seriously, did something happen?” Dick’s hand lifts like he’s going to do something stupid like check his temperature and stroke his hair. Jason shoves him - or tries too. He’s too shaken so there’s little strength in his arms right now, and Dick is like a fucking stone when his stubbornness activates.

Jason rakes the hair from his face with growl. “I just need to take a fucking walk, alright?”

“Fine.” Dick waves his arm for Jason to proceed.

The crossing signal changes and Jason darts across the street. He’s feeling a little agitated right now, exposed after the smallest exchange.

If he looks back he can say that his eyes strayed to Dick from time to time, but it has less to do with whatever the fuck Sal was trying to imply. It’s because somewhere between the drive from Gotham to here, Dick almost disappeared completely, folding the big bright heart of himself up into darkness. It was magnetic, consuming like a black hole.

Sal had warned the rest of the city was a den of unenlightened ignorance. It appears Jason isn’t very enlightened either. He knows it’s never safe to watch Dick Grayson. He’s known this his entire life, so why is he forgetting that hard-won lesson now?

Dick mumbles something to him, “I don’t think we should be going this way,” but Jason presses on, turning right the next block over and walking south until the sidewalks started to show signs of age and shitty black tar repairs.

Storefronts grow grimier. The street lamps cast sallow yellow light. There are less people on the streets now, and everyone eyes him suspiciously because he’s not from this neighborhood. He starts to relax now that he’s in unfamiliar but familiar territory. His feet carry him further and further away from his stupid mistake and the jackass that keeps changing things on him. Except for he can’t. Dick’s just behind him walking lightly on those twinkle toes, and even now, Jason has the urge to flip a glance over his shoulder and _look_.

He forces himself to take in his surroundings. They’re walking on a narrow sidewalk at the edge of a concrete park with its last three trees dropping sickly leaves to the ground. He’s jerked out of his reverie by Dick’s annoyed curse.

“Shit. Silver car.”

The cruiser pulls up beside them. Four men climb out. Their leader appears to be the one unfolding from the passenger side door, a tall, burly guy in an ill-fitting suit. They circle around to confront Jason and Dick, but Jason notices a fifth rise from the park shadows.

“You are in the wrong neighborhood,” burly announces, and Jason only rolls his eyes a little.

“My mistake,” Jason says shifting backwards. “We aren’t looking for trouble.”

“You found it,” burly replies, stepping onto the sidewalk.

“Clearly,” Dick murmurs.

“We have questions. Answer them, and this stays easy. What were you and your pretty boy doing at Sal’s?”

The combination of your, pretty, and boy has Jason instantly seeing red.

“First of all, he’s the fucking bodyguard, okay. A fucking lousy one, but you get what you pay for, I guess. And none of your fucking business. Now can you answer my question? Why the fuck do you think the goddamn beef-neck brigade falling out of their clown car is going to intimidate anyone?” Jason snaps, slipping out of Jack and fully into Jason Todd - bared teeth, humiliation/anger, and all. Another mistake.

The guy moves quicker than Jason had anticipated. He tenses, prepared to be bloodied by that mistake. A rush of air, and a sliver of black sliding in front of him. The guy jerks to a stop. A twist of the wrist and the knife drops with a clink followed by a body crashing to the knees. Dick whirls metal flashing in his hands.

 _Pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop._ The gunfire is rapid, suppressed, precise. Jason looks down at the trembling bodies and the perfect disks of metal screwed into the asphalt beside the foot of each man standing. Four. A pistol lays on the ground some three feet away from the middle dude after Dick shot it from his hands. Five. Jason’s eyes darted around trying to find the sixth.

“Do you know what a bullet does when it tears through the skin? Not a lot of people do.” Dick’s voice churns like gravel. “I’m up for a demonstration.”

Big and burly crawls backwards, face sweating. “You already shot me, you asshole,” he grunts.

Jason’s attention whips to the red blooming along burly’s thigh. Six. Dick knocks him back with a lazy kick.

“Hurts doesn’t it? Next person who moves, yadda, yadda.”

A tense silence falls over them while Dick makes a show of grabbing Jason’s elbow and checking over, then walks them through the tableau of still bodies.

There’s a seventh popping sound, the snap of Dick’s gum startling whimpers from the downed men. The grin spreading across his lips is darkly satisfied, and all Jason can do is stare as that pink tongue slides over his mouth again.

“You good boss?”

“Yeah, I’m good,” Jason grunts. “Let’s get out of here.”

Dick collects the gun and the pretty pearl handled knife, shoving them both into his belt.

“These are mine now,” he says, a glint in his eye daring anyone to protest. They don’t.

Jason stalks away from the source of his mental carnage. He’s treading on the edge of a blade right now. It’s painfully sharp and he has nowhere to turn. Only the thought of embarrassing himself gets him moving and even then, he realizes his body is one wrong word away from arousal. It sits in his belly, hot like sake, curling into his loins, sending his pulse stuttering, and if he stops to think about it, if he looks over to Dick’s soft lips and his jaw churning on that stupid fucking gum while he plays with his pistol, Jason will be hard.

So much for having everything under control.

“Move it, D,” he calls over his shoulder, refusing to see when Dick decides to follow.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ARTWORK by pentapoda ](https://pentapoda.tumblr.com/post/173651579908/a-reversebang-prompt-for-paperempiress-jaydick) who inspired this fic. 
> 
> Special thanks to the village for offering the right suggestions and feedback to pull the problem scenes back from the brink. Y'all do the most and I will never stop singing your praises as fellow writers, editors, and friends :D
> 
> And now on to the fic! Just remember, I said this is an indulgent story.... And honestly, it's all @carbonjen's fault if you think about it.

Once Jason confirms their run-in with the muscle clowns didn’t make the news, he shuts down the TV and tosses the remote to the nightstand. His feet pace out the length of the room, thoughts spinning and the walls closing in around him.

The prints collected from the confiscated weapons netted a couple names, and the identity of old burly. Eddie “The Chump” DuChamp, is a minor slum lord with real estate equity on the opposite end of the city. He is hardly a presence in the criminal underworld, or so Dick’s notes had said. Jason muses about why he was there, and why he was so interested in their business with Sal. He spins the topic around and round with only a few comments from Dick, who had spread a white cloth on the small table and pulled out his gun kit. Jason had said Sal didn’t have anything to do with it. Dick had accused Jason of letting his respect for Sal get in the way of the job, and Jason had stared at him, the flex in his fingers and the pull of his forearm as he stripped the gun, then told Dick to shut the fuck up. He had, surprisingly. Or not so surprisingly, because Dick is still mired in the role of Mickey D.

He should’ve never let Dick take the persona. Not only have they been partially compromised with their marks, Jason himself feels compromised by this strange amalgamation of a man hanging beside him. Dick shot a man tonight. Squeezing the trigger to pump out some lead isn’t what Dick does. The precision, the timing, the threat—that’s all Mickey D. And it’s something they never discussed, the actual art of the role, where Dick will take it if needed. Jason hadn’t thought they would. He hadn’t thought about what it’d do to either of them.

Fuck, he needs a drink. He needs a smoke. He needs Dick’s attention while he plots their next move. The soft scrape of metal on metal breaks his litany of needs. He snaps.

“Do you really have to do that now?”

“You know I like to keep things tidy,” Dick replies, slipping the guide rod into the slide.

“Since when?”

“Since always.”

“You’re taking this security expert too far.” Jason winces at how whiney that sounds in his ears.

“What do you mean?” Dick asks, seemingly patient.

“What I mean is, you shot a guy? That was stupid,” Jason adds. “Being stupid isn’t a part of the plan.”

“Boss, please. Give me a little credit.”

It sounds like something Mickey D. would say. Hell, it sounds like something Red Hood would say if…. Jason rolls his eyes.

“Fine. You grazed a guy. Still a dumb move. Still not a part of the plan.”

A flicker of cold blue, a grin in the face of Jason’s rapidly rising anger. “I’m embracing the method, boss. Thought it’d make you proud.”

There are things about Dick Grayson Jason knows and there are things about Dick Grayson Jason always forgets.

Here’s what he knows: Dick is a bossy, conceited, stubborn, selfish, _exacting_ asshole who somehow manages to combine those traits into the best thing to ever happen to your life. He managed to gain Jason’s trust through sheer will and a side of chilidogs, the manipulative fuck. He pushes every situation to the very edge, every person around him to the brink and never once looks back to what happens behind him because it all works out in the end.

Here’s what he forgets: Dick is a bossy, conceited, exacting asshole who Jason looked up to long before they met and that regard—that desire to fly above all his problems like Robin—tangled up inside him sometimes. Looking up at Dick is like looking to the sky, looking up to possibility you’ll never reach.

He’s not looking up to Dick right now though. He’s looking down. Down at this stranger cleaning his gun. Looking down at Dick is dangerous too. Shadows cast over him in this crappy hotel light, painting him shades Jason finds recognizable. Familiar. Approachable. It makes Jason want to think things. Think things like Dick’s down here in the muck with him, close enough to touch. Things like it’s safe enough to try.

“That’s the problem,” Jason mutters. “You don’t think.”

“You don’t pay me to think.”

“I don’t pay you at all,” Jason snaps. “Come on, D. We were rolling down easy street, but you stopped to shoot up people in Sal’s neighborhood? There’s no way he’s going to introduce us now.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know that.”

“How do you think it should’ve gone down then?” Dick asks in the same calm manner Jason’s heard him say, “report.” It makes his teeth itch, and he glares at Dick’s hands racing to find the play that would’ve ended things differently.

“Park, eastern entrance. Eight steps and we would’ve been out of sight. Hug the park wall to the building, fly off into the night. Or,” he continues after Dick’s unimpressed silence. “We could’ve agreed to a talk at a better location.”

“You think that was going to work after the rapport you established with the Chump?”

“It could’ve happened.”

“You really can’t believe that.”

“I know that.”

Dick’s fingers slide over the grip, fitting the spring in place. The slide settles over the grip and they come together with a sharp click. “You don’t know that, Jackie. Settle down already. You’ve been climbing the walls since before we got here.” A pause. “You never told me what happened with Sal.”

Jason’s lips curl back. “I did.”

“No. You told me they didn’t think I was your bodyguard, not why you stormed out the place.”

“Security expert.”

Where Dick would rise to the invitation to quibble, Mickey D. simply tilts his head and regards Jason with focused eyes. Or maybe smug eyes. Either way, the look makes Jason’s muscles bunch anticipating a blow and preparing to dodge.

Fuck that. Jason strikes first. He launches a quick shot to Dick’s jaw. The punch is intercepted before he’s fully extended. Wrist block. His next punch is veered off course by the back of Dick’s hand. The third by the heel of his palm. And the sonovabitch didn’t even look up.

A smug silence settles over Dick’s shoulders. It’s practically visible in the way he continues with putting the pistol back in working order. Dick cocks the gun to test the spring. He’s not looking at Jason. He doesn’t even flicker.

Jason lunges, elbow raised. The flat of Dick’s palm arrests him mid-motion then shoves, spinning Jason into a downward strike. Palm, slide, pressure on his forearm, and Jason’s pushed onto the bed. Jason’s smarting pride and the fact that Dick didn’t even move from his seat sends him exploding to his feet. He attacks again, frustrated but focused. The speed and aggression forces Dick to put down the gun, _finally_ , Jason thinks. He doesn’t pull his punch. Dick counters, blocking his wrist and forearm, but Jason goes against the motion, sliding under Dick’s guard to grab him by the lapels. Their eyes meet, Dick’s wide, Jason’s narrowed. He lifts and rolls, sending Dick’s body bouncing on the mattress, and follows with a pin.

Dick grunts when he lands, Jason’s heavy weight over him. “You’re real. You’re real tense, boss.”

“If you call me boss one more time, I swear to,” Jason growls. His threat is stopped by a sharp, echoing pain as Dick’s palms slap against his ears.

“Stop fucking around,” Jason snarls, ears smarting.

“I’m serious, boss,” Dick’s voice barely wavers when Jason shakes him, “You should relax. Concentrate on the next step. I’ll worry about the other side of things.”

“Stop trying to handle me.”

Dick looks down at where his wrists are squeezed tight in Jason’s hands. “I’m just telling you the truth. We got this. You know we got this because you waltzed into the restaurant and waltzed out with the big man smiling.”

Jason frowns down at him.

“You looked like you were doing a good job, boss. Patient. Charming. Never knew you could be that guy.”

That makes two of them, except Jason’s thinking it from the opposite side of the mirror. When he thinks of Dick’s undercover work, he remembers Dick parading as slick playboys and bratty trust fund kids laughing loudly and deflecting innuendoes while Jason sat with his thin fingers clenched angrily. It got to him then because he’d been young, naïve because he’d been taught money equated respect, money protected you. Knowing all those things hit a little too close to home when it came to Dick, how the world perceives him. How Jason perceives him.

The point is, he’s never seen Dick in this kind of role, never see him stretch to become something alien to the shades of life he walks every day. But he’s looking down into Dick Grayson’s famed blue eyes, quiet and close in a way he tried so hard never to imagine, and he only sees a shadow of him there.

He blinks, bringing himself back to the conversation, the shudder in Dick’s body as he tries to draw in a breath. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. You had the old man eating out of your palm.”

Jason follows the heavy-lidded gaze to his hands and then back to Dick’s bottom lip caught between his sharp white teeth.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if you hear back from him real soon,” a slow blink, a hint of a smile. “Boss.”

Yeah, Mickey D. might bring them closer, but Dick’s just as unattainable.

The phone rings.

Jason climbs to his knees to grab his cell. Warm hands fall to his thighs, and Dick takes a deep, aching breath. Their eyes meet. He’s not sure who’s giving him the encouraging nod. He’s not sure if he even cares.

“Hello?”

Sal greets him boisterously then spills into an invitation for a private event the next evening.

 _See_ , Dick’s smile seems to say. _You got him._

 

* * *

 

“One old fashioned for the gentlemen in the black suit, and one… oh.” The bartender’s enthusiasm dies when he sets the second drink on the bar. “And one Zesti twist for the gentleman in the winter white.”

Jason tosses a ten in the tip jar before picking up his drink. The bartender deserves it after dealing with Dick’s embarrassing orders.

The address Sal provided turned out to be a bakery uptown. After ordering the right menu item, Jason received a golden key atop his chocolate éclair. The coordinates for the meet was inscribed in the box, which turned out to be a two-story warehouse across from the newly developed Blüdhaven Riverwalk. The whole endeavor was ridiculously convoluted and unnecessary, but not as much as Dick’s sparkling drink.

“Zesti twist?” he asks after taking a sip of his drink.

“I’m on the clock,” Dick says quietly.

“We’re in Blüdhaven, Mickey D, casino capital of the lower Jersey seaboard. You can get one drink to celebrate.”

“We’re not in a casino, boss.”

“Yeah,” Jason says, eyes trailing over the tiered floor. “But this is close enough to it.”

The warehouse is alive with dazzling lights and spackled walls, the hallmarks of Blüdhaven gambling. It appears Sal has moved beyond simply organizing bets on the wrong side of the law. He’s bringing the thrill of illicit, high-stakes gambling to the working rich. The patrons swan around the dealers and tables, cheering and mourning at every roll of the di and flip of the card. There are a lot of people in attendance. And there is a lot of money being moved right now. Jason’s probably counted six forms of fraud alone, and that’s in favor of the patrons.

Walking around the edges of play makes Jason feel like an extra in a movie waiting for the moment the spy arrives, dapper in his dark suit. He turns after they complete the circuit to ask Dick if he recognizes anyone here. He hasn’t yet, certainly no one from Gotham. Dick’s eyes are focused on the far wall where four guards stand in discrete attention.

“Hey Jackie!” calls a congenial voice. “You haven’t greeted the host.”

Jason spins on his heel, a great smile on his face for Sal. “Evening, Sal. It’s one swanky party.”

“Thank you for coming, my boy.” Sal swings his arm up to showcase the heavy satin cloth hanging from floor to ceiling and the crystal chandelier sparkling down on everyone. “It’s all about creating a life of luxury.”

Jason accepts the firm handshake and pat on his back. “Thank you for inviting me. Nice turn out here.”

“Nicer than you think,” says Sal, a twinkle in his eye. “I’m not one to name names, I told you that before, but I got you an opportunity in front of a name. Whatever happens after that is up to you.”

“Will we be meeting soon?” Jason asks, adding a note of anxiety to his tone. Jackie needs this to go perfect tonight.

“In due time, _ragazzo_. The big money guys are here for the main event. And you're only after the big money, right?

“Yeah, Sal. Of course. That’s exactly what I’m here for.”

“And what about you,” Sal says to Dick, acknowledging him for the first time. “What are you here for, Mickey D.”

Dick places himself at Jason’s shoulder. “Keeping an eye on Mr. Rialto, Mr. G.”

“How can you keep him out of trouble when he won’t even put a foot in the door, huh?” Sal clamps down on Jason’s shoulder and shakes gently. “You’re my guest, Jackie. I want my guests to have a good time.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I’m not the best at any of these games,” Jason hedges, but Sal simply waves away the protest.

“Tell your boss I’m right, Mickey D.”

“He is right, boss,” Dick says dutifully. “You’re here on business, but a little pleasure never hurt anyone, right?”

Sal’s eyebrows raise, but he presses on, a good-natured smile on his face. “See, you should listen to your boy, Jackie.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out three blue chips, while Jason wills the blush from his face. “Drink my drinks, put money on my table, win yourself a couple of dollars so you can fly home first class, okay? The first game is on me.”

Jason accepts, flashing the chips in a wave, then slipping them into his jacket pocket. “Thank you.”

”Have yourself a good time, _ragazzo_. I’ll send someone to get you once it’s time to talk business.”

Jason watches Sal walk away, towards the other side of the room where he engages a tall Latina with a bright red dress. The blue chips slide out of his pocket and into the woman’s hand. Another set of blue chips roll out a few seconds later, but they’re not going to everyone. Sal simply greets others on the floor with a big laugh and a bigger grin. Jason flips the chip in his pocket, and glances back at the poker tables.

“You think these chips can get us to wherever the kingmaker is?” he mutters at the same time Dick’s soft voice calls, “Jackie.” He turns towards the soft breath on his ear.

“You notice anything screwy about this place?” Dick asks, thumb pushing at his lower lip.

Jason takes a sip of his drink, looking at everything except for the shape of Dick’s mouth. “Apart from the everything and how good the temperature control in this warehouse is? Nada.”

Dick hums. It’s the same hum Dick makes when he knows something Jason doesn’t. “Alright boss. I’m going to get us another drink while you work the tables.”

“While I work the,” Jason glowers as Dick slips away. “This isn’t a part of the plan, you dick.” He almost goes after Dick, almost yanks him by his perfectly starched collar and jerks him back, but there’s no reason to cause a scene. He purposefully sends his gaze the opposite direction of Dick’s path, deciding to wait until when Dick returns.

After another survey of the gambling, Jason sits down at the first black jack table in the row.

Blackjack is a simple game with simple rules. All players attempt to beat the dealer by accumulating cards as close to twenty-one as possible. The player closest to twenty-one without going over wins. Easy. Except it’s not— it’s far more complex. Underneath the counting, the game is about knowing the rules, both spoken and unspoken, and remembering the cards. It’s about understanding the situation and seeing all the permutations. It’s about making the rules work for you.

And right now, the dealer’s tendency to press his finger against the edge of the cards before he draws red is really working for Jason. He’s won six of the last eight rounds.

Jason taps the back of his hand to request another card. The card sails smoothly across the table. Ace of diamonds. He licks his lips slowly, an affected tell that came to him when he sat at the table, and then nods sharply. “I’ll hold.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Jason sees a line of men walk around the edge of the faux casino floor towards the darkened inner wall. A door opens and closes. The dealer calls, turning his attention back to the table.

“I’m sorry, dealer,” he beings mildly then rises to a triumphant shout. “But I’m sitting with nineteen here!” He throws a fist in the air with relish when the dealer announces another win. His stack of chips continues to grow alongside a small crowd of gadflies buzzing around, desperate for the scent of success. Too fast in fact, because he’s tapped lightly on the arm by a lovely woman in a white dress, who asks to escort him to another table.

Checking his watch, Jason sees it’s been nearly an hour since Dick disappeared. He pats the delicate hand guiding him around the floor and grins.

“How about I choose another game, miss? And if you can send me over a drink, I’d be very grateful.”

If Jason hadn’t already been on the radar, he definitely is now. It takes a lot of skill to turn one-thousand bucks into one-hundred thousand. Now he must show he can lose.

Jason never did well with craps. It’s a game that relies too much on intuition and blind luck. Jason’s never been lucky, not in this life or the last. He sets his box of blackjack winnings on the table and selects three chips on the shooter’s pick. The player rolls a three. Money goes to the house. Jason barely holds back a glower at the trust fund baby pouting at the di like it’s their fault.

He checks his expensive watch again, glaring at the time. Dick should’ve been back by now. Dick shouldn’t have left at all. What’s the point of being a wanna-be-gangster in a den of mafiosos if you don’t have someone watching your back? He imagines Dick sniffing around for some lead, some excuse for why he should take charge. The guy never did like it when someone else was in control.

The crowd on the floor thickens and changes. Jason starts to notice the shift around eleven. The vocal pitch of the room drops a few octaves as more of the female patrons are replaced with men. Heavyweight men of either presence or accents. There’s an edge to them, a look in the eye and an arrogance of the hand. A few of them disappear towards that back room. He glances around the room searching for Sal, but he’s gone as well. Interesting, but Jason’s not worried. One way or another, he’ll get his time with the kingmaker.

He’s down fifteen thousand when Dick returns, losing it all on a string of bad bets on bad shooters. Dick sets a drink on the table then leans in close.

“I got something,” he whispers, lips brushing Jason’s ear on Jason’s turn to roll the di.

“Fucking hell, Mickey,” Jason hisses leaning away for a moment. He struggles for composure, trying to pretend Dick didn’t startle him with his soundless steps bullshit.

“Players,” the house calls. “Place your bets.” Jason places his chips down, going for another point.

“This is important. Are you done here?”

“I’m in the middle of working the table,” Jason says, feeling testy.

Dick places a hand on Jason’s shoulder. “Come’on boss. This is important. Hmm.” His quicksilver mood shifts and his body presses against Jason's side, breath rustles over Jason’s cheek. “Put this on Pass,” he says, gesturing at the Dealer.

The dealer looks at Jason, who shrugs, okaying the change.

“Last call for bets.”

Jason squirms away, uncomfortably aware of how hot Dick burns and how he can feel it through the suit he wears. “You gonna blow my dice too?”

Dick lifts the hand higher and pulls Jason’s fingers apart. They unfurl slowly, but Dick only smiles before pursing his lips slowly, blows. It’s a careless moment, only lasts a second, but it draws every eye within three feet of the table. Jason licks his lips, then snatches his hand away as if burned.

The dice go tumbling down the green felt runway to knock against the back wall.

“Lucky number seven,” the dealer calls, surprised. The small crowd of players and onlookers cheer as Jason wins the round.

“Now that I have your attention, we need to talk.” Dick slips onto the stool beside him. He isn’t even looking at him right now. How in the world can he say that with such conviction, like he knows Jason’s head is swinging after the whiplash he’s experiencing.

After relinquishing the dice, Jason climbs into his own stool and spins towards him. Their knees tough. “I’m all ears.”

“There’s something else going on here,” Dick murmurs. “Something more than the busted craps table and the Dom Perignon. Look at these guys. Bronstein, Keywell, De Blanco, Collingwood.” He rattles off the who’s who of crime lords. “No one has placed a single bet.”

“Any of those people the king maker?” Jason asks, sotto voce. When Dick shakes his head, he shrugs. “Then save it for another time. We have to get what we came for.”

Dick looks at him for a long moment. “You know, I want to say you’re right boss. I feel like you don’t hear it enough, but not right now.” He slides off the stool somehow placing himself just between Jason’s thighs. “Wait two minutes and follow me.”

Someone lets a long, slow whistle free when Dick begins walking away. Jason’s belly took that same swooping slide and can’t help but agree.

 

* * *

 

Three minutes later, Jason enters the bathroom. It’s bizarrely clean and lemon lavender scented. The old tile gleaming in the yellow light. Dick sits on the edge of the sink one hand inside his jacket. Jason kicks the door stop around and jams it under the door to give them a few moments of privacy, then stalks forward to stand in front of his partner. Dick slides his hand free revealing a flat silver disk. He presses down once to activate the dampening device. Jason can almost imagine the white noise enveloping them.

“What did I say about changing plans,” he says without preamble.

“Boss, come on. The coast is always changing and so are we,” Dick replies. “Why are you living in the past?”

“My op. My plan. My rules. No changes,” Jason grounds out. “We’re seriously close to waltzing out with everything you need. Let it go. Before this gets dangerous.”

Dick raises an eyebrow. “Gets dangerous? This job is cake. Just humor me for another hour. Let me confirm my suspicions.”

“It’s high-stakes poker,” Jason snaps, then rolls his eyes at Dick’s faint surprise.

“What are you—?”

“This mystery you’re working on isn’t much of a mystery,” explains Jason. “The guys disappearing through the back door. Sal hands out free chips. The people who manages to keep them after a certain dollar amount get whisked away to play with the ‘big money,’ which is where we’ll be if I hit the dollar threshold at the tables.”

Dick leans back, a faint look of  _something_  in his eyes kindling with the surprise. Jason can’t tell if it’s amusement or awe, but he knows which one he prefers. “You got it all figured out then, boss.”

“Yeah, I do. You weren’t the only one who went to detective school,” Jason says. “I was doing all the observation and movement tracking while you were out there fucking around doing fuck all.”

“I was on the balcony with the other guards,” Dick says, and it’s nothing but amusement in his eyes.

“Yeah?”

“You learn a lot when a guy’s on his smoke break. Like, the guards spooked because some of them have been taking odd jobs and have maybe disappeared. And did you know this place has a basement? How does the temperature control fit in,” Dick adds, enticingly.

Jason rolls his eyes. “Is this going to be another story about you looking at building plans because we’ve already had this conversation. Stop living in the past.”

“Clever.” Dick’s full lips quirk into a grin. “But I’m serious about this. I’ll buy high-stakes poker, but there’s something else. We need to know what it is.”

“No. Too dangerous.” Jason slaps his hand on the counter and leans in trying to impress with force and stature, because he’s seen Dick respond to those tactics more than once now and in the past. Dick brushes past it.

“You keep saying that, but I don’t know why.”

“I already told you,” Jason says, temper rising from watching Dick bounce from toughened bodyguard one second, shrewd vigilante the next. It’s like watching a freaking tennis match

“What?”

Jason huffs. “The bodyguard—”

“ _Security expert_.”

“—thing. Sal isn’t buying it. He keeps dropping hints that he’s onto us. One wrong word and it’ll get pretty hot in here for us.”

“Us? What’s the issue?” Dick looks genuinely concerned now and it’s frustrating to see that look, watch those hands reach up like they’re ready to soothe him like Jason’s the problem. A small, sly part of Jason’s brain whispers that Jason is the problem, isn’t he?

“They think we’re fucking,” Jason blurts. “They think you’re my boy-toy or… something, pretending to be my bodyguard. That’s why we have to get out of here while we’re still under the radar.”

Dick stares at him, eyebrow raising, then.

“I know.”

Jason stops, wind taken out of his sails. “You do.”

“Jesus Jason, yes. I know what they're thinking,” Dick says. “It's not my first undercover gig.” His gaze and voice flatten. “You know that, right?”

“I guess, but -”

“And it’s nothing I can’t handle,” Dick says, interrupting, temper flaring. “I’ve been under enough times to know people are curious and they try to impress a pretty face. And it’s pretty obvious Jack wants Mickey D. I just use it to our advantage.” He places a hand on Jason’s shoulder and squeezes once, roughly, an easy grin on his face. The urge to grin back is instinctive. Jason glares instead. The back of his neck prickles when Dick’s fingers spread slowly. He tilts his head a little, catches Jason’s gaze through his lashes. Licks his lips. “Maybe sometimes I use it to my advantage, boss.”

Fingers slide down his shirt and tugs at buttons. It’s light, purposeful, the same touch dancing over Jason’s body for the past twenty-four hours. “That’s why we’re in here right now,” Jason breathes, throat tight.

Dick coaxes the button free. “Let’s just say I’m testing a theory. And if it gets results, it gets results.”

It hits Jason like a blow, embarrassed heat when he realizes how obvious he must appear in everyone’s eyes, Dick’s eyes. He has been compromised this entire time.

“You know.”

“Those looks you’ve been throwing me can’t all be in my head, right? You’ve always been good at reading people, boss, but sometimes you only see what you want to see,” Dick says, voice gentle.

Jason’s drops his head, unwilling to see his expression reflected in Dick’s brilliantly clear eyes. He follows Dick’s finger, the neatly manicured nail dragging down the center of his chest. It’s all been a performance, an act, Dick but not. Jason’s face burns hot.

So much for being in control. Jason reaches for something to help closer him through this moment. The anger that rides at his shoulder doesn’t rise no matter how hard he coaxes it, leaving Jason exposed. He presses on the counter so hard his palm hurts.

“You sonavabitch.”

“Boss,” Dick says, sounding scandalized.  _Scandalized_. Like Jason cursing is the problem here. The tie around Dick’s neck is calling for him right now, begging him to be used to choke Dick’s scrawny little neck. He touches Jason’s cheek, and Jason drags in a shuddering breath. “Hey. Look at me.”

Jason swallows thickly. He can’t. Looking at Dick is what got him here in the first place. And still, he can’t stop. Thoughts in turmoil, he stares at the pale shirt fabric spread over Dick’s belly move as he breathes slowly, calmly, in and out. He watches the light wink off the metal of his belt buckle. The hand Dick glides back up his chest until it disappears to his arm, out of view.

Even though his brain whirls as fast as his heart pounds, Jason can’t come up with a single explanation to turn this around. He can’t lie, he can’t deny, he can’t even speak with Dick’s eyes on him. Jason draws in a breath ready to argue his way out of this bathroom and this night. He’s interrupted by Dick’s laughter, loud and bright and in Jason’s face. He straightens, angry at the momentary flair of hurt, when he works up the nerve to check Dick’s gaze and finds it looking past him. The pain quickly dissolves into an unbearable heat when Dick slides from the counter to his feet. Their thighs brush, Dick’s hand connects with his chest, and then he’s moving to the final bathroom stall across from them.

“I can’t believe it,” Dick crows. “Boss, come look this.”

Jason pushes away from the counter trying to find whatever it is that stole Dick’s attention. Dick shoves at his shoulder, pushing him into the stall beside him. It’s visible after stepping inside and moving the stall door, carved into the old wood, a wide circle between the stalls.

Dick’s laughter floats through it. “Sorry, sorry. But you’re freaking out about mobsters thinking you’re sleeping with me and there’s an honest to god glory hole in their pop-up club.” Two fingers slide through and waggle at him. “See, you don’t have to worry. It’s okay.” Dick’s voice softens to his own, the cheerily calm confidence. “It’s okay.”

Jason waits too long, too busy thinking that this isn’t okay. How could it possibly be? Dick pulls his touch back before Jason gets the courage meet him. There's a faint sigh followed by silence, and Jason thinks Dick is going to leave, what the hell is he so worried about. He does it, reaches out. His fingers scramble through. A heart-stopping second when there’s nothing there, just this numbness creeping in like armor as he stands there stupidly in front of a glory hole.

There’s a brush against his fingers, skin against skin. His jaw loosens little by little until he can let out a roughened chuckle.

“You gotta stop doing this,” he whispers. “Taking everything on. Trying to make it easy for everyone. Especially me.”

“No, you guys need it. Especially,” Dick sighs. “Especially you, boss. I didn’t make things easier for you when you needed me to. In fact, I sometimes think I made it harder.”

There it is. The tortured martyr coming to save the world with his big brother schtick. He’d been waiting for it to make an appearance all those days ago. Jason doesn’t like it, hates it in fact, how his belly grows tight and squirmy from the attention. He much prefers the fascinating blend of Dick in his cover. It’s maddening, a little unpredictable, and pushing Jason for more, except. He sighs. Isn’t that just Dick? Dick was right in his statement. He really does make it harder.

Jason grunts. “That hasn’t changed.”

“What hasn’t changed?”

“You.” The word is dragged from Jason’s mouth without his permission.

“Me.”

“Yeah. You. We have a plan and you keep hopping in and out of it. You’re making my head spin. Even when you’re fooling everyone with this deep cover bullshit, even when you’re trying to make things easier, you’re making it hard for me.” He laughs darkly.

A pause, and then something brushes his fingers again. Soft hair, skin. Lips.

“Does this mean what I think it means?”

“What do you think it means?” Jason asks, stalling while the ice settles in his gut.

Dick’s tongue now on the pads of his fingers as he breathes. “It means, I hope I’m right.”

If there’s a way to answer that without his voice cracking, Jason doesn’t know. He stands there quietly as Dick’s mouth moves over his fingers. Reverent kissing. So unexpected. So not what’s supposed to be happening right now.

“You’re right,” he says, voice barely there. “It’s why he thinks it. I couldn’t stop staring at you. You got me really fucking hot for you.”

Dick sighs. “I’m hot for you too, okay? Let’s just. Jackie and Mickey D, right? Let’s give them something to talk about.” Lips, teeth, and then Jason’s fingers slide into Dick’s warm, wet mouth.

Jason stares at the wall, the circular cut out, the waxy light spilling from the old fixtures. He stares at the shape of Dick’s lips, the shadow he casts, and laughs. He laughs lowly, angrily. “Fuck. Fuck, you think I want.” Jason leans against the wall with a sigh. “You think I want to be in here with Mickey D? Seriously?”

Dick pulls away with a hum. “Your eyes say you want to eat him alive.”

“Listen to my mouth then. If I had a choice, I wouldn't be in here with fucking Mickey D,” he mutters, very quietly. A confession.

There's a pause. "Who would you want to be here with then, boss?"

Another pause and then, "Jay?" That’s Dick’s voice now. It washes over him like a balmy current. “You want me to be here instead?"

Jason grips the top of the bathroom stall so hard his fingers turn white. "Don't. Don't fuck with me right now." He feels another kiss to his fingertips, soft, soft, soft then the drag of teeth. Jason’s got his forehead pressed to the stall and he's shaking it back and forth. “No, no, no, fuck you, D."

“I’m here, right now, I want. Right now,” he says between more soft kisses, a gentle suck to his middle finger, and Jason can’t seem to make himself move, "Right now. We can have this.”

“Stop playing with me, Dickie,” he warns, voice too hard to be anything but a plea. He knows this is what Dick does, he pushes the envelope, pushes the people around him. Jason’s been on the edge of this all is life. One push and that’s it, he’s free falling.

“I’m not. I’m not. Jay, I want this right now. I want you.” Dick’s words curl around him, warm and soothing, dragging him closer, and Jason’s eyes squeeze shut. All it’s going to take is one final push. “Let me see you.”

Jason’s hand lifts to his fly. An encouraging sound comes from behind the stall, a soft croon that dies away when Jason’s zipper drops. It’s the loudest sound in the room right now,  _click, click, click_ , of the metal teeth unhooking. He pulls his cock through the fly of his six-hundred dollar trousers. It’s warm in his hands, not heavy, not yet, but it’s filling slowly. He edges towards the thin wall dividing them, chokes back an echoing moan when Dick spies him through the hole. He carefully dips his cockhead through, the first three inches of length. He can see Dick’s tongue sweep over his lips and then those lips part. Pink and soft and moaning softly when the head of his cock presses against them, spitting precome at the first flick of the tongue. Dick closes his lips and gives him the filthiest little suck. He pulls back to kiss at the tip, chaste little pecks, opened mouthed, wet smacks. Dick catches the head between his teeth and grins at him, then slides down until his nose brushes stall.

Too fucking much.

It’s every dream Jason buried in his brain made real, and it’s not fair. It’s not fair how easily Dick can throw him off balance without even trying.

Jason tilts his head to the side, needing a moment to recover, to look away from how far off the track’s he’s fallen. There’s a stranger staring at him from beyond the cracked stall door. Shocked, desperate arousal blows his eyes wide open. The pink-cheeked sliver of his reflection is just starting to sweat, gasps like a lust-addled mark.

 “Stop teasing  _me_ ,” Dick whispers, hungrily. “Give me more, Jay, come on.”

“Fuck. Fuck, baby,” Jason hisses, thrusting forward into that hot mouth. Dick moans around him and pulls back - stalling the motion but not the rush of arousal sweeping down Jason’s body.

The bathroom door thumps and rattles, caught on the doorstop, startling them both.

Dick moans audibly. For a moment, Dick sucks the tip so hard Jason’s ears begins to ring like Dick’s dragging air from his lungs. Then Dick is pulling away with a gasp.

“Rotten timing,” he mumbles before standing. “Fix yourself.”

Jason’s not an idiot, but he’s also battling back need so strong it could bring down this building in a flash to get Dick back, only beside him this time. No walls. He tucks his cock into his waistband and joins Dick at the sinks, pumping soap in his hands when the door finally slams open.

Two heavily muscled goons spill forward, faces more flushed than Jason’s own.

“Looks like someone needs this place more than I do,” he says with a laugh. “Let’s go.” His exit is stalled by a giant paw on his chest.

Goon One pushes him back. “You Johnny Riot.”

Jason flicks his gaze to Dick, who takes a protective stance just in front of him. “No.”

Goon Two sighs. “It’s Jackie, mate. Jackie Rialo.”

All Jason can think about is how he’d been seconds away from feeling his dick clutched in the most wonderful throat in existence only to be interrupted by these buffoons. He gives them a flat look filled with how little fucks he can give right now.

“Close enough. Can I help you gentlemen?”

“The boss wants to see you.” Goon One reaches for him only to be stopped by Dick’s hand on his wrist.

“Please refrain from touching my client,” he says. Goon One tries to free himself and goes spinning away with a yelp. He hits the wall hard.

“Thanks, D.” He turns to Goon Two and grins, pleased to see his meaty face blanche. He’s not that far off his game then. Good. “You work for Mr. Giancomo?”

“No,” says Goon Two. “The  _boss_.”

Nodding, Jason smooths down his shirt and jacket. “Then lead the way.”

 

* * *

 

 

They’re taken back to the casino floor past the bar and the serving girls who barely glance when Dick pulls a glass of champagne from one of their trays and knocks it back mid stride. The guards at the far wall nod at their goon duo, whose presence grants them access.

On the other side of the door isn’t the big poker game like Jason is expecting. It’s just a small brick room with another set of guards and an elevator. The elevator goes down to the basement. Dick isn’t doing anything specifically smug, but Jason can tell he’s enjoying this moment. He’s alert, staring straight ahead, and his tongue flashes over his lips again. Jason’s not enjoying this though. His heart is still thundering in his chest and his hands hurt from how rigidly tight he held onto that damn wall. Absurdly tight as if it were the only thing in this world keeping him upright.

The elevator completes its short trip. The escorts alight. Jason moves to follow, but he’s topped by a warm hand at his elbow. He looks down to the hand holding him, then up the churning blue in Dick’s eyes. There are questions there, a reassurance, and Jason nods back supplying his own. This isn’t Jason’s first operation either.

The basement air is stale with heavy sweat and testosterone. He can only glance around for a moment before they’re swept into a long room. There are three grand poker tables arranged in the room, but each one is empty.

Goon Two manages to scurry in front of them before Jason and Dick step through. Goon One brings up the rear, nursing his arm.

“Found them, Mr. Dewitt.”

Goon One gives them wide birth, then glares as he reaches a fortified position beside his people. “Yeah,” he chimes after giving Dick a nasty look. “Found them in the bathroom.”

Mr. Dewitt is a man of average height in a tan suit that’s a little too tight around his shoulders and gut. His face is covered by a neatly tended beard and a pair of polarized lenses.

“In the bathroom….” Those glasses swing from Jason to Dick, down to the scuffed knees of his pale gray suit, and up again. “Are you kidding me right now?”

Jason squares his shoulders and tilts his head in the universal sign of _what are you gonna do about it_?

“You have gotta be fucking kidding me right now. Sal. Sal. This cannot be the guy you were talking up. Not this amateur who’s fucking around with sweet meat in the _bathroom_.”

Sal glances at Jason. His disappointment resonates more than his amusement. He steps forward, mediating the moment with his presence. “He’s a businessman, Jacob. They’ve always been a little reckless, especially when they’re young. But I still vouch for Mr. Rialto. He’s got real initiative and real opportunities.”

“Yeah. Real initiative to disrespect me. Bringing his boyfriend to a meeting?” Jacob scoffs. “You know I don’t like this, Sal. You know I don't work with fairies.” His voice curls downwards, a verbal threat that has Jason tensing and Dick pushing in front of him again.

“It’s a new time, Jacob. Kids can be who they want. It’s like my Darla says, we should live and let live. Love and let love.” Sal claps his hands together. “But I’m not here to talk about the way the world should work. I’m here to talk business.”

“Business. How can I talk business when I got this going on in front of me?” Jacob waves vaguely at Dick’s presence. “Pretty boy just steps up like he’s gonna do what? Protect the guy? When his boyfriend is eight feet taller than him and built like a brick shithouse? Come on, Sal. The disrespect.”

While Dick stays perfectly still, Jason bristles.

“He’s my security expert,” Jason says, annoyed. “Anyone has a problem with that can take it up with me.”

“See, that’s what I’m talking about. I can’t respect a man who puts his candy on the payroll. It’s weakness.”

“You should seriously keep your shitty puritanical views to yourself,” Jason snaps. “I’m here to make money. I have a legitimate business venture that can move product into Blüdhaven at regular intervals. My textile plant does it all, clothes, toys, we got an award for producing economical and eco-friendly women’s dresses, for chrissakes. We’re so above board, we’re practically floating. And I have a legitimate way to wash the cash through said business. It’s easy profit all the way around. You’re either in, or your not.”

“Women’s dresses, huh? You put them on your pretty boy? Make him trot around for you?” The goons laugh on cue.

“That’s it? I outline a foolproof way to increase your money and you make a joke about crossdressing?” Jason’s voice cracks like a whip. “How the fuck do you stay solvent?”

“Boss,” Dick says, warningly.

“I’m calm. This is just fucking crazy to me.” He turns to Sal. “I’m sorry, Mr. Giacomo. This opportunity isn’t going to work out, but I will uphold the finder’s fee in our agreement.” He snaps his fingers. “Let’s move, Mickey D.”

Light glints over Jacob’s glasses when he straightens. “Are you trying to walk out on us, Rialto? Stop them, boys.” He gives his own flamboyant snap, then stares when his goons hesitate. “Did I stutter?” he muses, hand waving in the air.

Goon One blanches while Goon Two raises his hands in surrender. “No boss. It’s just.”

“Let me repeat myself. Stop. Them. Boys.”

Goon One runs forward, a mad light in his eye. Dick shifts his stance to meet his heavyweight dead on. They meet in a clash of limbs. Dick dodges left, brings up a knee to the gut. Goon One bellows weakly, grip loosening. The last of his many mistakes in Jason’s opinion. Dick grabs the injured wrist, then twists flipping the goon onto his back. A sharp snap echoes in the air.

The room is silent but for the goon’s squirming groans.

“My wrist. My fucking wrist.”

Dick crouches beside him, the twisted grin from Jason’s mug shot on his face. “Ice and a splint,” he says, patting the man’s cheek. “You’ll heal up in no time.”

Jacob edges back a step, teeth flashing in an angry grin. “Security expert, huh? I would’ve never believed it. But now I wanna know what your boy is really made of.” He turns to Sal. “Put him in the ring. If he wins, lover boy gets connected with someone on the west side.”

Jason pauses. “The ring?”

“The ring. Come on, Sal. This guy is so wet behind the ears, I mean. He doesn’t know what it is you do? And you introduce him to me?”

Sal shakes his head. “This isn’t necessary. He’s a good kid, Jacob. Cut from the old cloth. I know you can tell. And I vouch for him. Show ‘im, _ragazzo_.”

Jason frees his hand from the suit pocket. The three chips nestled between his knuckles. Another wave of his hand and they disappear.

“Haha,” Sal laughs, broadly. “He’s got style, Jacob. Style and a plan. You could use him.”

“No. Not a fucking fairy. I don’t care who their daddy is or what ass they’re kissing. They gotta earn their way in like the rest of us.”

Jason’s had enough. “You,” he points to Jacob. “Shut the fuck up. Sal, what’s the ring?”

“It’s the special fights we run on casino nights. It’s the thrill of Vegas without the rules and regulations. And all the money. We bring underground boxers from around the country here, although now people want to see the whole MMA thing, so it’s a part of it too. So much blood, but what can you do?”

This is the thing Dick’s instincts had been driving him toward. They have everything they need. The kingmaker’s identity, a new contact in the criminal underworld, and a way to exit gracefully. Jack Rialto can take the hit if it means he can come back again.

“I’ll do it, boss.” Dick’s voice is dangerously soft. He glances back at Jason, revealing the fire in his eyes, the damning flare of instinct and opportunity meeting to change the fucking plan. Again.

Jason draws in a breath, regretting the words before they cross his lips. “He’s in.”

* * *

They’re supposed to be separated, Dick filing down to the fighting pen, and Jason to the glass boxes they’ve somehow installed in the warehouse basement. But Jason insists on following Dick down first.

“You’re going to kiss him goodbye?” Jacob taunts.

Jason’s lip pulls into a snarl. “I’m going to wrap his fucking wrists.” He pushes Dick out the door ahead of him with a final look to Sal, then follows two bodyguards he recognizes from the restaurant.

Shipping crates stack around the outer corner of the warehouse’s underbelly. The swampy scent of pressurized water mingling with the sweat and blood. Once they enter the bathroom, Jason can hear the roar of a crowd just beyond the walls. They’re greeted by a tall man with floppy hair and a professional wireless headset. A fight coordinator, Jason thinks. Fancy. He sneaks glances at Dick several times during his conversation with their escorts. Jason resists the urge to roll his eyes as he reads their lips.

“They’re going to set you up with someone outside your weight class,” Jason growls.

“You’re surprised?”

“No. It’s just fucking cliché thinking. Lazy. You’re clearly smart, fast, nimble. If they want to take you down, they need to match you, not over power you. Anything else isn’t much of a challenge.”

Dick grins at him then, a blinding thing that leaves Jason blinking away stars. Dick brushes a thumb over Jason’s cheek. “Do me a favor, boss. Don’t let ‘em know.”

“And ruin your fun? No way.” They exchange a quick smile.

Dick starts to disrobe. He keeps his movements slow, tossing the jacket down and then letting his trousers drop. There’s a thick outline just visible in the boxer-briefs. It’s gratifying after the fact. Jason looks away, ears hot, and snatches a roll of wrapping tape from a nearby bench. He begins unwinding the dark cloth.

“Dewitt,” Jason murmurs. “You know him?”

“Crossed his path once. They call him ‘the Judge.’ Didn’t make him to be part of all this. He’s anti-corruption.”

“Seems like he’s pro-money though.”

Dick hums thoughtfully, rolling his shirtsleeves twice to allow Jason space to begin. “Get O to track whatever financial activities light up after these matches. Then I should have enough intel to guide the dismantling.”

“Hey!” The coordinator’s voice breaks them apart. “You’ll be up after the next fight. You got a name?”

Dick pauses, lips parted, then he frowns. “You know what? I got nothing.”

“Are you kidding me,” Jason says. “This is the pistol packing playboy with the pretty boy smile. The one fighter girls are warned about but drives all the boys wild. The one, the only, the Tiny D!”

“Hey!” Dick shoves Jason, who falls back on his ass with a laugh. “Don’t listen to him. It’s the _Dynamite_ D.”

The coordinator stands there with a dopey half-smile on his face, like he thinks he’s in on the joke but isn’t sure. “Dynamite D. Got it. You’ve got ten minutes. Coaches and um. Friends out in five.” He shuffles away to leave them alone again.

Jason finishes wrapping Dick’s hands carefully, paying attention to his wrists, and then he wraps his feet. Dick sits quietly, breath soft against Jason’s cheek. He’s focused inward, while his glittering eyes watch Jason’s every move.

“Times up.”

Jason stands slowly. “Don’t take too long,” he mutters. “I’m ready to go.”

“You got it boss.”

 

* * *

 

All the big money that had been in the poker room now sat in the prize box, a glass enclosure settled atop steel beams. It overlooks the main ring, a caged in set of mats illuminated by stadium lights. There are big screens on all three sides of the ring showing the brutal fighting in glorious color detail. All the crime bosses Dick named earlier were here and a couple politicians Jason vaguely recognized from last year's campaign advertisements. It’s enough to make him pull out his phone and type out a simple request. _N Fight night. Money trail. Blackout. The Judge._ The text disappears the moment it’s sent.

There are various tables and chair set up in the lounge area. The factional divides are clear in the space between each head of a criminal organization. The only people sitting together are Dewitt, Sal, and a heavy set, balding man.

Jason settles into the seat he’s shoved towards and smooths down his suit. “You guys streaming this shit?”

“Residual revenue,” Jacob says, testily. “Makes the reward worth the risk.”

The fight ends quickly. A crew of cleaners come out to swab down the mats twice and then lay down disinfectant. A curvaceous ring-girl steps into the cage next and she circles twice with a giant white card over her head announcing the next fight’s participants: the Ludicrous Luddite and the Dynamic D.

The stadium lights dim and Dick walks out wearing nothing but his black boxer briefs and tape. Jason exhales slowly as Dick climbs into the cage.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the special contender for tonight’s surprise match. The pistol packing playboy with the pretty boy smile,” the announcer begins, and Jason leans back, a grin on his face. “The one, the only, the Dynamite D.”

Dick raises his arms to the jeers in the crowd before stalking from one end of the cage to the other establishing it as his own.

It’s entrancing, the shift of the light on Dick’s muscles, the dark look in his eyes reflecting on the giant screens, but it’s the tattoos that have Jason’s attention. Thick black ink swirls over both arms, sleeves of characters and images that can’t possibly have any meaning, he thinks, until Dick turns, arms outstretched to display the wings etched into his shoulder blades, the feathers down the back of his arms.

It’s all fake, it has to be, because Jason’s seen Dick shirtless multiple times in his involuntarily short life, but the tattoos look like the real thing.

The Ludicrous Luddite comes out next. His moniker is appropriate for a mountainous mound of meat lumbering through the crowd to the screams of excited violins. Once he enters the cage, his movements change, becoming quicker, sharper, punches faster than a man his size should be able to throw. Jason sits up, while Jacob lets out a cruel laugh.

“It’s time to see who the better business man is by pitting one investment against another. Ladies and Gentlemen,” he shouts. “Place your bets!”

The bell rings beginning the fight.

Dick springs forward meeting the Luddite full on, or so it appears. He darts at the last moment, spinning his heel into the Luddite’s instep and swinging their bodies down. The Luddite crumbles like a tree in slow motion, feet, shins, knees, thighs, hands to brace himself.

Silence falls over the crowd, and then they explode. Dick jumps backwards a few steps and plays to the crowd, hands up, grin lethal.

Luddite recovers quickly. Once he’s back on his feet, his craggy face shifts dropping expressions like a landslide. It settles onto anger spilling red hot over his face and chest. Dick’s shoulders jostle once, a quiet laugh, and he turns back, hands lifted and rocking on his soles like he’s ready go toe-to-toe with the mountain. Luddite swings, swings, misses, misses, but his third blow glancing across Dick’s dodging head sending him stumbling. Luddite jumps forward, grabbing Dick by the throat and lifting him high until his feet dangle helplessly above the ground. Then next punch splits skin, maybe lip, Jason doesn’t know what, he just sees red spilling over Dick’s face. Then Luddite lifts Dick above his head with a roar.

The crowd vibrates with bloodlust. They start chanting Luddite’s name. He carries Dick to the center of the mat, roars a second time, swings Dick to the ground.

Jason’s on his feet before he can stop himself. He walks over to the glass, fist clenched tight in his pocket.

On the screens, Luddite’s foot skips across the floor into Dick’s side. He follows with a heel kick, that just misses Dick’s head.

The gangsters in the box gasp, ensnared in the scene unfolding below.  Luddite tries again, but Dick’s more aware this time, and visibly rolls to the side leaving a smear of blood on the mat.

“Damnit, D. Get _up_ ,” Jason growls.

Another failed attempt to stop Dick, another barely there escape, another riotous howl from the crowd and then Dick recovers. He stands up slowly, lean body unfurling like a broken map of the world, blood and faint bruising color the black ink. He tosses his hair from his eyes and looks around, clearly. The grin on his face is gone. He glances over his shoulder towards the glass and tosses a thumb up. Jason didn’t know how tense he was until he relaxes and the ache in his neck melts away.

Then Dick explodes into action. His stance, movement, everything is different from before, but it’s not Nightwing. There’s no flips, no quips, not playful joy of motion. It’s ruthless efficiency. The flat of his palm deflects the Luddites punch and pushes him into a counter move that his opponent can’t correct. Dick follows with a leap, pushing off from Luddite’s knee to give him height and momentum to crush an elbow into his temple. Luddite stops in his tracks, blinks. Dick follows with right hook, jab, jab, right hook, escalating the speed and force of the blows until his opponent is stunned and staggered. Dick ducks a windmill punch and spins into a kick that doubles Luddite over. Again. He switches to his knee, left side, right side, then Luddite’s jaw. The mountain topples to the ground.

The fight is raw, brutal, intense, and playing havoc with Jason’s head. Because he thinks this is sexy, this is really, really sexy, seeing fucking Mickey D. taking this guy down, bare knuckles, no remorse. Only half of those punches are pulled, and even then, Dick is dangerous. He moves like a panther, sleek, muscles roiling and exploding into each movement. He’s doing all this for the case, and the case means he’s doing all this for Jason. It’s a rush, really, being caught up in the death-defying show Dick Grayson is putting on. Excitement curls into his belly and leaks into his groin, and he’s turned on right now. Turned on in the worst possible way. And he doesn’t fucking care.

There’s a roar from the crowd, a groaning sigh from the booth. Jason watches the screens where the camera circles overhead for a closer look.

The Luddite is on his back groaning while Dick straddles him, an elbow digging into his throat. Dick’s grin is white and sharp on the screen, splattered with blood. His eyes are up, searching through the lights for something or, as the announcer speculates, someone.

Jason looks down witnessing Dick as close to the edge as he’s ever seen. A part of him wants to know if he can push Dick further, bring him closer to where Jason is one more time, to see if this is real. But the question is, does he really want that?

The answer is simple.

Jason turns to Sal. “Because of the respect I have for you, I’ll call him off."

He can feel the eyes turns towards him, every single one shifting from Mickey D. out there to the one who supposedly holds his leash. He lifts his arm, a parody of Dick’s pose from before, and turns one thumb up. It’s impossible for Dick to see him, he knows it, the crowd in this room knows it. But Dick always seems to do the impossible.

The crowd shrieks. Jason doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t need to.

“I’m going to collect my security expert and cash in on my investment,” Jason says. “Sal, I know how to reach you. Goodnight.”

 

* * *

 

Dick isn’t in the bathrooms or the casino or any other place Jason tries. Eventually, one of Sal’s men corners him.

“He’s outside, Mr. Rialto. Talking to the other fighters. If you take that door.”

Jason’s gone before he finishes the sentence. He finds Dick outside, hips resting against a brick wall, chest hunched over as he lights a cigarette. A streetlamp from the corner radiates enough light to send a halo over Dick, painting his gray suit and loose tie shades of pale and wrinkled, his face faintly bruised and satisfied.

A ring of fighters stand around him along with a couple of men and women that stand stiffly. Security sneaking out to meet the newest idol.

They’re shouting questions at Dick, loud and fast. It covers the sound of the door closing, and Jason fades into the shadows to watch, curious to see finally see some part of Dick’s agenda in motion. Dick answers as rapidly as he can between drags.

“Holy shit, _holy shit_ ¸ man. How did you do that?”

“Training,” says Dick.

“Where did you train?”

An amused glance. “Around.”

“Who’s your tattoo artist.”

“Lady named Zee. Only person I’ll ever let ink my skin,” Dick says, like he’s confiding a secret between two people instead of a crowd of onlookers lapping up every word he says.

“You were special forces, weren’t you?”

A hazel-eyed woman with a tight bun nods, agreeing with the shout. “I have a friend who did work with Israeli forces along the Quracci border. You move like he does.”

Dick nods. “I do have special training. But I can’t say who or where.” He gives them a sympathetic glance. “You know how it is, right?”

A couple heads nod in the crowd. They get it, they understand. They go along with it, eager to bask in the light of their new hero.

Everybody’s friend, everybody’s goal, everybody’s dream. Jason shakes his head, chest tight.

“With all your training,” begins a young man with faded tattoos up his arms. “With all your fucking skills, man, I gotta know. I gotta know. Why are you some dude’s number two?”

Dick looks up at that question, something like a smile curling at his lips. He takes a drag from his cigarette and lets the smoke swirl around him. “I met the boss when we were kids. I knew he was gonna be somebody then. You ever meet someone like that? Someone who you know is gonna be somebody. Someone special.” Dick’s voice is low and gentle like a lullaby. His onlookers nod, and Jason’s sure every one of them has a certain someone in their minds eye right now. That special someone.

Another drag, another breath of milk-white hazing the air.

“That’s the boss to me. We got separated a long time ago. Fell back in together. He’s somebody now. Just gotta stick around and see who that is.” Dick grins, capturing attention and breath with the tilt of his head. “I’ll stick around as long as I can until I do. He’s worth it, you know?”

The silence is quiet, thoughtful, and then.

“Mickey, man. Are you and your boss. I mean. That sounds like some, you know. It sounds like—”

Jason kicks the door then emerges from the shadow. As one, the fighters and Dick turn towards the noise.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you, D,” Jason calls, project his voice a little louder, a little further.

“Probably not looking too hard then, boss. I’ve been here the whole time. Had to talk to my fans. Sign a few autographs,” he says, laughing as said fans grumble good-naturedly parting for Jason.

Jason stalks over and takes the cigarette from Dick’s mouth. “What are you doing with this?”

Dick’s expression wavers somewhere between the mask and his own, like he’s not sure of Jason’s intentions. Funny, because Jason isn’t, not right now. Not after all the way he saw Dick spin truth into his smoke and lies. He taps the ash, letting the orange burn glow, then puts the cigarette to his lips. The flavor is rough, acidic, but Jason imagines champagne, Zesti twist, and coppery need brushing over his tongue. Dick’s eyes grow dark.

“Don’t you know these things are bad for your heart,” he says, returning Dick’s heated gaze, and he means smoking, this life, this persona. He means _me_. And that’s funny too, because Jason thinks the same can be said for him. The silence is incredible, too long, too thick, and Jason can feel his fingers start to curl, grasping for that anger when it seems like he was wrong.

A smile blooms at the corner of Dick’s lips, all at once sure and quiet. Small and just for Jason.

“You worried about my heart, boss?” Dick asks, letting Jason know he gets it.

Of course he gets it. He’s Dick Grayson.

“Your heart? No. That brain of yours? Not so sure. Putting my foot down though, no more smoking.” Jason takes another drag from the cigarette, blowing the smoke away from Dick. “How are you gonna stick around to protect me if you’re over here wheezing from a collapsed lung, huh?”

“Sorry, boss,” Dick replies, sounding chastised but also unrepentant.

Jason draws a final lungful of smoke before letting the cigarette fall. He crushes it underfoot and takes a moment to glance over the crowd of Dick’s fans. Even the ones who can meet his gaze eventually duck their heads, chastised, and begin shuffling away to give them some semblance of privacy.

“Yeah, you’ll be sorry in the morning,” Jason says, voice low. “Come on. Let me get a good look at you.” He reaches for Dick then, no boundaries, no walls between them.

Dick cocks his head to the side with a grin. “How about this angle? You’ve been missing it all evening, and it’s my best side.”

Jason rolls his eyes thinking, you can’t stop a showman. You can be the perfect audience, though, and that’s Jason, eyes wide and eager despite himself.

Taking inventory is a necessary skill in their lives. His initial assessment of Dick falls into the category of “could be worse.” He keeps his touches even, the pressure light, but Dick still takes in that sharp breath when Jason touches his chest and sides.

“Hands,” he says, and Dick lifts them dutifully.

Jason cradles his wrist checking the movement. Dick’s good at hiding things, good at pushing them aside, but he can’t hide the slow intake of breath or the way he stays slumped forward to take the pressure off. Not from Jason.

“Wiggle your fingers,” he murmurs, watching the digits flutter, and then shake when Dick tries to hold them still. A little bit of adrenaline, a little bit of pain. “Really out did yourself tonight.”

“Did you take a look at the other guy?” Dick asks.

“Why would I when you’re around?” He winks, and Dick chuckles, then groans, bring an arm up to his chest. Jason steps in front of him, a shield while Dick works through the ache.

The hurts and pains of the fight linger in his movements, a slow unfolding that Jason’s witnessed time again, sometimes from the other side of the line that stays between them, but never from this close. Never had the front row seat to the flash in Dick’s eyes, the soft molting of color over his skin. Never had the opportunity to be the perfect audience of one standing steady when Dick reaches out to him, grabs his forearm, squeezes tightly for an anchor to help him stand. Finally, Dick pushes off from the wall.

“You said something about leaving?”

“Finally. You know, if you stuck to the plan, we would’ve been out of here two hours ago,” Jason says huffily just to hear Dick’s low chuckle.

Jason wraps his arm around Dick’s waist, taking the weight, taking it all. Dick curls one arm over his shoulder. Their fingers slot together over his hip, gripping each other tightly. Maybe Dick’s been working behind the scenes, leading from the backseat, taking the first step, but it’s Jason taking the next, guiding them into the next moment, out into the night.

“Come on. We’re going home.”

 


End file.
